


Souls of Cinder

by Kalendeer



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dragons, Enthusiastic dubious consent, Gratuitous descriptions of Caranthir's freckles, M/M, Morgoth ain't sexy, Necromancy, also dragons, disgusting angband, loads of dragons, this is actually canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8009731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel is dead; only he isn't. As he wakes in Angband starring into the eyes of his husband, he finds himself enlisted into the most dubious group of kinslayers, traitors and dark elves to save dragons, steal Silmarils and topple Morgoth from his throne... well, at least, that used to be the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death, rebirth and husbands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/gifts).



> Sultry in September gift for Sleepless_Malice! You asked for loads of characters and rare ships, so here are the non-existent submarines! 
> 
> Have a good ride on this one everyone!
> 
> Huge thanks to Marchwriter, who kindly voluntered to beta this story and did an AMAZING job!

Dying is painful.

I hit the rocks hard enough to be instantly killed, but the wounds inflicted during the battle hurt far more than from the fall itself. My heart stops. My skull, bashed open anyway, bleeds profusely, golden hair charring from the Balrog’s fire.

My soul leaves my body.

I feel the overwhelming Call of Mandos as I would feel the urge to eat, drink or breath. His voice pulls me; in my now bodiless heart; pure terror battles with a desire stronger than I ever felt before. My heart does not resist the call for home, for safety and pardon, and the relief of the crushing culpability for all the wrongs I inflicted on others; relief from the unbearable pain.

The black, burning tendrils of the Balrog’s spirit wrap around me like a cage. In the rage of his defeat, he means to carry his opponent back with him, and so even as the Call still tugs every part of me West, even as I struggle mindlessly to follow, the scorching claws pull me apart and keep me still.

A houseless spirit is defenseless.

I remain in my enemy’s clutches for moments unnumbered, blinded by agony, unable to think during my unraveling at the hands of beings far more powerful than myself until everything fades and I am taken by a new kind of pain: lack of breath, the extreme ache in every muscle, the discomfort of my nakedness on the hard ground. The pain recedes. My chest fills with air. My spirit settles back under my skin. Calloused fingers caress my brow, brushing hair damp with perspiration away from my face.

I open my eyes slowly. I am lying in an empty room bathed in darkness, walls of unadorned stone encircling me. I blink and focus on the face above me.

“Moryo.” I struggle to remember the new name. “Caranthir.”

A slight smile plays on his lips. Moryo was never beautiful by the Eldar’s standards. His freckled skin, dour face and dark eyes didn’t fit the pristine standards of Tirion; in a way he reminds me of Maeglin, beautiful and dangerous in the way of an exotic creature. Yet, blinded by love or perhaps a greater understanding of beauty, I always wondered how others could call Moryo ugly once they saw him smile. When he does, a single dimple appears on his left cheek. I raise my hand to cup his jaw and am amazed at how real his skin feels.

How can we change so little? How can Moryo’s skin feel like it did on our wedding day during the Unrest? After Alqualondë? After the great battles of this Age and Eru knows what more? How can his smile still show this single dimple after the Oath?

“Laurefindil.” My name crosses his lips like a sob despite his smile. “How I missed you. I am so sorry, Lauryo. I am so sorry this is the time and place for our reunion.”

“Why? Because we are in the Halls? Because we are dead?”

“We are not in the Halls, Lauryo, and we are not dead – not anymore. We are in Angband, re-embodied by the good graces of Melkor.” He barks a humorless laugh. “The Balrog who killed you took your soul with her when her spirit returned to her master.”

“ _Her_?”

“Nardis. She is…”

“How in Mandos do you know the Balrog who killed me is a _she_? What are you doing there?” I feel like laughing. I didn’t know he was dead. Five hundred years ago, when my name was still Laurefindil when I pledged myself to the cousin of Elenwë’s husband, I believed our love would be strong enough for me to feel each of his heartbeats. I thought we would be strong enough to walk in the streets hand in hand. I thought we would be brave enough to tell our families despite the feud running deep between Fëanor and my mother.

And now Moryo is dead, and I didn’t know. For how long was I a widower?

“I refused Mandos’s call. Turns out those who do end up here. No, do not ask,” he stops me as I open my mouth. “This is not the place. We are in the rebirth dungeons and can be interrupted at any moment. I will explain once we reach my room.”

He gives me a set of plain clothes, almost as fashionable as a sack of potatoes. His own attire is bland and less than flattering, hardly prettier than what I would have expected of a thrall.

Moryo’s room is just that: a room, singular intended. A filthy curtain of leather hangs in front of a cavern more or less dug as a square, with two big alcoves carved inside the wall in the shape of coffins (beddings, I should think); smaller ones act as shelves. There is no furniture except the niches, and two grown elves can hardly stand together in such a small space.

“You can have this cot. Curufin used to sleep there, but he moved out a few days ago, so it’s yours.”

“Curufin is here?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What happened? Why is he not with you anymore?”

“He is all right. As all right as we can be here.” Moryo used to be loud, but he keeps to hushed whispers: the curtain doesn’t allow us any privacy. “He will tell you later. Are you hungry?”

“No. I need to understand. What are you doing here? Why is Curufin here? Are your other brothers with you?” How much did I miss since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears? No one in Gondolin even knew some of Fëanor’s sons had died! By the way they survived every battle with barely a scratch while Fingolfin and Fingon were crushed, I was wondering if they weren’t indestructible.

“I may be wrong. I have been here for six years but things are changing fast. Maedhros, Maglor and the twins are still all right… or if they are dead, word did not reach Angband. Celegorm went straight to the West. Curufin refused the Call. I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

“Was it the Oath? Did the Oath negate the Call?”

“No. I do not think so. Celegorm died before us and his spirit was already gone. I heard the Call. Curufin is…” Caranthir shakes his head. “… it’s complicated. I cannot tell you now.”

“But…”

“Lauryo. I _will_ not tell you. This is Angband. You could be tortured or forced to repeat what I am telling you. I cannot risk this and neither can you. We should keep to superficial conversations.”

“‘Superficial conversations?’” How can he ask me to keep to superficial conversations? After five centuries away from each other? We are married, and yet I spent more years as an estranged spouse than as anything else. “Perhaps we wouldn’t be here if we had had more than _superficial conversations_. That’s what we used to do, did we not, Moryo? We avoided talking about important things. We never talked about your father, or your brothers, or the Oath, or Alqualondë or _anything_ that mattered. Tell me, when you torched those ships, was I something more than a superficial thought to you?”

“I am not the one who disappeared in a hidden city while the rest of us toiled every day against orcs and traitors.”

“Fine words for the son of one,” I say, and the unbidden image of Fëanor’s wrathful face and flaming eyes erupts between us. Caranthir jerks violently, limbs tensed as if to strike, but he doesn’t and that leaves us eyeing each other in stifled hostility.

At least Caranthir breaks the silence with an angry groan and an annoyed gesture of the hand, storming out, only to turn at the last moment. “Do not leave this room. You are as safe here as you will ever be.”

And there I am left, buried under leagues of rocks in this prison with a cryptic Fëanorian and a deadly tiredness settling into my very bones. I settle in one of the niches, on a thin mattress that was probably never washed, if it was ever clean to begin with. Sleep takes me before I know it.

I am awakened by Caranthir’s clumsy steps, ragged breath and horrid breath against my face.

“You are here,” he drawls, reeking of alcohol. “You are here. This is not a nightmare. You are here.”

He fumbles to his own bed, face flushed almost red. Being drunk really does nothing good for his looks.

“Are you drunk?”

“Very much. Grog. That’s all you can have here, orcish grog.”

“That is disgusting.”

“Shut up. I have work in three hours. I need sleep.”

“Work where?”

But Caranthir only groans and moves a little until light snores fill the room. I ease from my cot, disgusted, and leave the room despite his warnings. I find myself in a long hallway dotted with leather curtains and chose a direction at random through dark tunnels. I finally stop in a corridor with one door only and a single figure standing in the middle, inky hair braided against the strong, broad back of a smith.

The figure turns and I know him – Prince Maeglin of Gondolin who, Idril told me before my death, had fallen from the walls. We were never friends, but he is a face from Gondolin and I never wished him ill. How many of our own are there with us? How many damned to this prison of iron? I stride to him and pull him into an enthusiastic embrace. His body goes rigid in my arms.

“My prince,” I say. With each new hour, each moment, I find people I loved (still love) in this place. This is not the war I expected. I thought we would be heroes, and those who would fall would be out of Mandos in mere days once the Valar understood how brave and _right_ we were.

War is nothing like this. From the moment I set foot on the deck of Caranthir’s bloodied ship I understood that war was nothing glorious and Fëanor had lied to us. There had been pride and fire in my husband’s eyes when he Swore; on that ship, he had been empty and silent, uncaring, not even bothering to clean the blood off his clothes.

At least, I thought, at least we still have death. A scared elf dies everyday while a brave one suffers lightly. And yet! Maeglin is brave, and so am I. I am recklessly courageous. And yet — where are we now? Doomed not once but twice.

I let go of my prince. His skin is ashen, his dark eyes fleeing. He takes a step back as if burnt.

“Glorfindel. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.” I will not ask him how he ended here. I cannot recognize the look on his face, nor the submissive slouch of his shoulders. “Have they been hurting you?”

He starts violently and finally meets my gaze.

“You are blind,” he answers, voice strangled and hostile. He takes another step back when I try to reach him. What happened? We were never friends, but Maeglin isn’t (wasn’t) scared of me, and never have I given him any reason to fear me. “You shouldn’t be there,” he repeats. “If my fa…”

We both turn toward the sound of one of the massive, iron door opening on the tall, slightly slumped form of a dark haired moriquendi. His is a face I have and never will forget, for I was there when Eöl murdered our beloved white princess.

I was there; obviously, Maeglin and I aren’t the only one to remember.

“This is Glorfindel of Gondolin,” Maeglin introduces me. “He lost his way. I will show him back to his chambers.”

“Are you a servant?” Eöl interjects. His clothes are notably better than mine and Caranthir’s. Whatever the dark elf does in Angband, he is no mere slave. I remember he is a smith: would his hatred of the Noldor be enough to turn against his kin and pledge himself to Morgoth? “I know him. He is Caranthir’s whore and beneath you. Let the pet handle him.”

My spirit soars in wrath. How can such a disgusting person dare speak this way to me? To Maeglin? How can my prince just look at the ground and nod like as chastised child? This Avari I saw thrown from a cliff – and by Mandos’s Hall, he deserved such a fate.

It is not cowardice but utter astonishment that keeps me from barreling into Eöl to teach him how to speak to Lords of Gondolin, for another dark haired elf quickly follows the murderer out of his room, head modestly bowed, fully dressed in undyed but more or less well cut clothes and braided with the simplest style, meant only to keep the hair from the face. His silver eyes shine with the proud light of Aman, but still he makes a show of obedience when Eöl commands him to take me back to my ‘owner,’ without flinching, as if he feels perfectly at ease with acting as a servant to such a personage.

Never has Curufin looked so unlike his father.

We were mere acquaintances, and not friendly ones at that: Curufin supported his father in all things while my mother was a staunch opponent to the High Prince. Nonetheless, the sweet, meek smile, submissive demeanor sickens me to the core. Here is Maeglin, who won’t meet my eyes and behaves as a beaten dog would, standing right by Fëanor’s son, more docile than a living doll, without even a hint of unhappiness marring the pristine skin of his face. Is this really Angband, or have I fallen into some mad dream where no one behaves as they should? Where the proud wolf turns to a mouse and the sons of fire into obedient puppets of clay?

I let Curufin lead me by the arm. His hand is warm against my skin. I hear Eöl’s door closing behind us.

“What were you doing here?” Curufin asks in a conversational tone. As if we were meeting only yesterday in Tirion to have some tea. “Angband is not a place to wander. You could have met quite a lot of unpleasant people.”

“Does Eöl count as unpleasant?”

“Of course not. Please do not slander my master.” His _master_? “Eöl is powerful here, Glorfindel. Do not cross him.”

“Or what?”

“Do I really need to spell ‘reality’ to you?” He stares at me, a cutting glare much more like him than his puzzling demeanor around Eöl. “Caranthir didn’t get you back for nothing. You are not in Gondolin anymore and you clearly have _no clue_ about what is going on here. Listen to my brother and _obey_ him unless you want more pain and problems than you already have.”

“I expected better of the sons of Fëanor.”

“Do not sully my father’s name with your traitorous tongue,” he hisses. “None of you have any right to expect _anything_ from us. I have no idea what Caranthir sees in you and I do not care: stay out of my business and do not bring unnecessary danger toward my brother, or I will ensure that you discover precisely what he saved you from.”

He precedes me into Caranthir’s chambers, where the snoring has gone up to reach an alarming level, to the point that I see Curufin sigh more than I hear him.

“Grog. I am half-certain this poison is turning us into orcs from the inside out.” He pulls Caranthir none too gently to arrange him into a less noisy position. “Listen for the gong. Wake him in two hours.”

He barges into me as he gets out, a shoulder hard as rock hitting my bony one. My new body is far thinner than my former, well trained one, and Curufin’s frame tells of long hours of work in the forge.

I sit and try to put some meaning into what I have seen. I need to know what happened to Maeglin and, if possible, rescue him out of this place. Eöl is gone to the enemy, if he was on anyone else’s side to begin with. Caranthir is too unreadable to guess whether he is trustworthy and Curufin… something is clearly wrong with Curufin. With Turgon gone and Idril Ulmo knows where, Maeglin is now my liege.

I watch Caranthir sleep for the first time since Alqualondë. In the dimness of our room, I have both the time and quietness to review my own failures. I drift into awaken dreams out of boredom rather than out of exhaustion.

I remember the days after the first Kinslaying, my first meeting with the large-scale brutality of a battle. I was shocked to witness Moryo’s unaffected face, the blood covering his sword and armor still. He was unsmiling, barely blinking. He did not tell me he was sorry or show any ounce of regret. He did not question his father or brothers or the Oath. He did not argue loudly like Celegorm did when Aredhel confronted him (shouting that _they had shot first_ ). He did not cry like the twins. He did not try to explain, as Maedhros did, that it had been an accident and their father couldn’t have desired such a result. On his face there was nothing, and so I believed he felt nothing.

The gong pulls me out of my reveries. I wake Caranthir with a light touch on the shoulder that makes him groan and curse.

“What I am supposed to do?” I ask him before he leaves. He hasn’t said a word since he awoke; not as if it was a long time ago, since there is nothing to eat, drink or wash in here, and he has no reason to linger by me.

“Stay here. There is clean water somewhere on the top shelves. I will be back with food at midday. _Do not wander_.”

I drift into back into troubled dreams, eyes glassy staring right at the ceiling. In my reverie, Gondolin and Tirion merge together, until the bloodied streets of Alqualondë overlap with Gondolin’s burning square. A black silhouette turns against a background of flaming red – and I do not know if I am looking at Caranthir or Maeglin.

I start back to reality; to a reality I do not want to belong to. My throat constrict around packs of tears. I am a warrior, a singer, a friend; I am the one who makes jokes and lighten the mood. Give me a sword and I will perform. Give me a command and I will follow with the grace of a well-trained dog. I am not the kind of person armed to just die and be reborn in a place where my honesty and good intentions are of no use to anyone.

Unless, of course, I am meant to be of use; meant to be go back to Caranthir or Maeglin by some superior force. Faith, Turgon claimed. Faith is the key to enduring. Someone, out there, wants be to be there and help.

“I missed you,” I tell Caranthir as soon as he reappears in our alcove. I have been rehearsing for the better part of two hours all the things I never said that should have been said. “I am sorry that I did not talk to you after Alqualondë. I am sorry that I didn’t fight harder for our marriage. I am sorry I never wrote to you. I swear I will be there for you now.”

I beam with my best smile, the one that never failed to summon his perfect dimple. He sighs.  
  
“The past is done and gone, Laurëfindil. You cannot change what I have done, nor undo your own mistakes.”

Well. That went well.

“We are yet young.” I close the very small distance between us to bring my fingers to his cheek. “You are speaking like we are some kind of old Unbegotten with no room for change.”

“Are we?” I snake my arm up his neck, my brow seeking his, noses touching. “Lauryo. We cannot, I do not have much time…”

“You cannot or you _will_ not?” I try not to remember that this used to be one of Fëanor’s most annoying moto. He bits his lips, his face slowly turning into a lovely pink.

“Of course I _will_. I haven’t… had, anyone, since you left.”

“Ah, and I was thinking it was my personality that you missed.” But I have missed his hands, his body too, so when he kisses me softly (a good-bye kiss), I answer with fire and want blazing through my spirit, brought close to my skin, scorching him with the too long bottled up feelings of anger, loss and lack of him, of the frustration of highs mountains encircling me and rage and all those long nights spent touching myself, thinking of a strong body speckled with fire and dark hair with no face. I have a purpose. I will make us indestructible again. I will bring hope back into his heart, whatever it costs me.

 “We don’t have to take long,” I murmur against his lips. “I want to _feel_ you.”

I do not even need to coax him into arousal. I get up only to find myself crushed against his chest, my buttocks cupped by hard, strong hands. I grab his shoulders and dig my fingers into them.

Our lovemaking is too quick and devoid of grace, but _oh_ so satisfying after years of celibacy. The feeling of his body grinding against mine, his hands on my backside pushing my belly against his, his muscled back rolling under my fingers – and his hungry lips on my neck, sucking my sweat and naked skin, marking me as his ( _Caranthir’s whore_ , Eöl said); all of this sends my spirit soaring like a bird spreading its wings after a long winter.

And Eru, do I soar! I glow and meet his boiling spirit with all the passion of mine. The touch is blissful ecstasy, running through our joining tongues, through the skin of our chest, so close we could be one, and yet even stronger in our throbbing members. I come first; he follows me before I have time to descend, pulling me back up into a second wave of pleasure where our spirits merge. Caranthir never comes before I do; his self-control, in this, is greater than mine.

I unclench my fingers from his shoulder, slow and unwilling, and feel my spirit splitting from his and let the cold and emptiness settle back, as it did each time we made love after Formenos.

His shoulders are dotted with freckles, little brown specks going down his arms. How could I forgot so many details about his body? I run my palms against his arms, feeling the perfectly smooth skin. I used to map the freckles as if they were stars to be assembled in little constellations.

Caranthir leaves in a rush with swollen lips, a smile on his face and a dimple showing on his cheek.


	2. We have a Plan

We spend the next day making love every time we meet and in every position that seems possible in the restricted space we have, with no bed and nothing but the floor and two almost-coffins carved into the wall. With each coupling our spirits come a little bit closer, merge deeper, until I start to feel him coming back from work before he even enters the hallway.

We talk very little until the need to _understand_ becomes too pressing to ignore. Why are we here? Why aren’t there talks of escape? The fëanorian don’t strike me as the kind of people who would keep their heads down and satisfy themselves with this whole situation.

“Curufin followed our father’s call,” Caranthir whispers against my hair. We are lying side by side, naked on the thin mattresses we have settled on the floor. With our spirits so entwined, I have regained what trust was withheld; I can seek the information he refused and appease the unease that his apparent meekness raises in me. “At least he believes he heard father. I am still wondering if it was he or if the Beast somehow managed to fake his voice.”

The first rule to survive in Angband is to never utter the word Morgoth. The fortress’s main resident has the uncanny ability of knowing exactly who calls his name, and his wrath is too terrible to behold to risk this.

“Why would Fëanor be here? Of all people, he is the most likely to refuse the counter-call.”

“My father died in plain view of Angband. As far as I know, this is the main reason souls are called here. I talked to soldiers who died either during the Sudden Flame or the Unnumbered Tears, and all of those who died on the plain are quite certain that they never heard Mandos’ Call. It seems to me that dying at the hands of either Him or one of his Maiar is another way to end up in Angband for sure. All former thralls of Angband never hear the Call of Mandos.”

Does that mean that I own my presence here to the Balrog I slayed? My mouth is filled with an ash-like taste. I remember quite well the feeling of its… her claws digging into my soul, her fire barring me from Mandos. One day I will have to find this monster back and kill it for good.

“What of High King Fingolfin?”

“Whatever is left of him, he cannot help us.”

“Fingon?”

“Same. From what I know they may be orcs at this time, like almost all of those who are called here. The Beast does not have the power to create souls, so he just… reuses ours. I haven’t heard of Turgon though, so he is probably safe. ”  
  
I let the information dig into me like bloody teeth. I think of the tens of thousands of elves who died on the plain, the Thangorodrim looming in front of their eyes. I think of the endless waves of orcs flooding the streets of Gondolin, of the Balrogs and dragons that were there and wonder who was caught and who went West to judgement and safety.

How many of those orcs were our former friends? Were Fingolfin and Fingon unknowingly laughing at their kin when Turgon’s tower crashed to the ground, its foundations weakened by fire?

And I wonder: why are Caranthir and Curufin still there if they weren’t changed? Did they try to escape? Did they scout the fortress, search for hidden passages out and seek allies?

“What do you think? About your father?” I ask, feeling that, once again, Fëanor would be at the root of this. Everything his sons do, especially Curufin, used to grow from the soil of their father’s genius and madness.

“I do not know for sure. We neither met him, nor heard of him, but all I know tends to confirm Curufin’s intuitions. His bond with father was always stronger than anyone else’s, including mother and grandfather… and, as a matter of fact, my father would have been more attracted to the Beast than anyone else, save perhaps Fingolfin.”

“This is rather counter intuitive. Of all elves…”

“My father is not _all elves_. You weren’t there when he died. No one was save the seven of us. He did not die because of his wounds – he died because his spirit was ripped from his body. We made up a pretty story but…” He swallows with disgust. “I don’t think I ever saw anyone suffer as he did. His spirit fought against himself until his body gave in. He couldn’t see us or feel us anymore at the end.” His heart beats strong and fast under my palm. “His death _destroyed_ Curufin. We never discussed Curufin’s birth, but all of us knew father poured so much of himself into him – they are almost a part of each other. Father told him things he told to no one… including the truth about the Silmarils. If mother had known – if any of us had known, we would have kept him from crafting them.”

“Are the rumors true then?”

“What rumors?”

“That the Beast inspired your father to make them.”

Caranthir sits, thus disengaging me from his shoulder, his freckled face pensive.

“This is not what Curufin said, but from the events… it is quite possible that He is responsible, yes. It would just fit too nicely. Father told Curufin that he had studied the Trees and tried to capture their light, only to find that such jewels would only dim with time, and not achieve the purity of Light he wanted. He made a breakthrough when he understood that the Light of the Tree was, in fact, made out of the Flame Imperishable, the sole self-sustaining, true source of energy in Arda, the very fuel of the spirit itself, the energy that allows us to sire children and create new spirits out of ourselves.”

I put the pieces of the puzzle together; the picture, clearer with each new sentence, and the magnitude of Fëanor’s foolishness if my guess is right.

“He didn’t use the Trees, did he? He poured his own spirit into them. He was done the moment Formenos fell.”

Caranthir doesn’t approve, yet he doesn’t contradict me either. There is, in his frightening immobility, a silent nod.

“Then why did the Valar pretend Yavanna was the source?”

I have to hope. I have to hope that this is wrong, because if my guess is right, if the Silmarils are just shards of Fëanor’s soul and getting him back is the only way to escape with Caranthir – then we will have to flee with the jewels. It won’t be just us going out. I will be us with the very core of this war running away from…

Running away from what? The Silmarils are set on Morgoth’s crown. How in Cuivienen are we supposed to steal something that is kept on the enemy’s head?

“I have no idea. I do, however, wonder at Varda’s _hallowing_ of them. Whatever she did left a mark on his soul, one that he couldn’t erase. He started to speak of slavery and thralldom. He was afraid – not only of the Beast but of all the Valar. There were days when none of us could touch him. Others when he couldn’t bear to have anyone look at the Silmarils. He felt utterly naked when he wore them in public, or when anyone else saw them.”

“If this is true, then the Valar are not merely naïve but malicious as well. They were our _only_ hope…”

“They still are,” Caranthir interjects. “Because this war is lost, Lauryo.  You may not have been aware, but Gondolin was the last great stronghold. Nargothrond is gone, Hithlum and Himring are long gone. The Falathrim are reeling…”

“What of Doriath?”

He stiffens.

“Doriath… no more is to be expected of Doriath. Nothing remains but leaves scattered in the wind.”

“Maedhros is still there! Will he not take back the crown?”

Caranthir stands up abruptly. All warmth is gone from his spirit and his body stands, rigid and stiff.

“Maedhros hasn’t been the same ever since the Nirnaeth. No, he won’t take back the crown, and neither will Maglor. They wouldn’t be accepted by anyone apart from our people anyway.” He exhales deeply, from the nose; his usual gesture to lessen the pressure. “No, Lauryo, the war is lost until the Valar come. We can expect no help but our own wits. There is much to be done. Nothing Maedhros can help us with, but we have you. Someone or something saw fit to reunite us. To send you to me, here, whole and safe. I have hope, now, hope that with your help we can do this.”

I blink. He would not think of…

“You mean to rescue your father.”

  
Which would be the craziest goal to have since he – we – don’t even know for sure that Fëanor is there. Are we really risking our freedom for the possibility of a ghost?

“Of course. We always meant to rescue our father.”

“No. No, Moryo. This is different. This is real, not some foreign war you are planning from a secure fortress. We are in Angband and we cannot stay here! We have to find our way back, even if there is hardly anything left to go back to! Princess Idril may still be out there, and I have seen Maeglin… he could take the crown! He is a grandson of the High King, he has a claim! We could still fight!”

“Fight with what? Sticks and stones? No. This is not about this war anymore. This is about us, merely us, and my father. He was there too long.”

“You aren’t even sure of that.”

“Curufin is sure. This is enough for me.” _And it should be enough for you_ , his eyes tell, but it isn’t. I have no love lost for his madman of a father.

“This is not doable, Moryo. If you father’s bond to the Silmarils is strong enough for the Beast to be able to rip him from his body and drag his soul here, then breaking out with Fëanor is meaningless! He will be brought back again!”

“Do you think I did not take this into consideration? I never said the whole thing would be easy. Curufin and I have been preparing as best as we could ever since we got there four years ago.”

“You are planning to steal the Silmarils, aren’t you?” I throw as a wild guess; little more than a theory that has been bugging me, too crazy to be real, but perhaps not too crazy for the Sons of Fëanor.  There is no rebuttal coming, no puzzled astonishement, no laughing in disbelief. And the guess is not so wild anyway, more like a truth coming out that I refused to believe.

Because I cannot, will not believe this.

 “You are completely nut. Does this have anything to do with Curufin playing nice with Eöl?”

Which proves that Curufin isn’t that bright after all. Eöl is the kind of person that should be left alone to rot.

“Being reborn in Angband was an unexpected opportunity,” Caranthir admits. We are keeping our voice very low, but our chamber still has no door, and by the tilt of his head, my husband is listening hard for anyone coming our way. “In centuries we never came near saving him. Now, if Curufin is right and Fëanor is there – we _will_ find him. We will find him and free him from this place.”

I stare at him, aghast at the sheer magnitude of his ambition. When Fingolfin first landed in Middle Earth, he marched unopposed to the great door of Angband, found them closed, and proceeded to breach them after what was, really, the last attempt at taking Angband itself since Fëanor’s mad dash toward its gate. Breaking out with the Silmarils and, what? Fëanor’s soul? An orcish Fëanor, or worse? To go where? To whom? To run to Maedhros and Maglor and hope that they can find some magical army to protect them from whatever Morgoth sends after us?

“That bitch Luthien stole one Silmaril already,” Caranthir tells me, reading too much through our newly strengthened bond. “It is doable.”

“She is half-Maia.”

“Was. She is dead.”

Who isn’t.

Nonetheless, as mad as Caranthir’s goal is, I am relieved to discover he and his brother still have it in them to fight. A Fëanorian driven by his Oath and filial love is pretty much still a Fëanorian, even if you strip everything else out; these past days, Caranthir and Curufin were anything but themselves.

My own fighting spirit has not crashed down with Gondolin. The Oath is not my goal and I have no affection whatsoever for Fëanor, but everything against Morgoth is a victory I am willing to fight for.

I remain restricted to my chamber, Caranthir’s company and Curufin’s occasional visits until my husband manages to secure a working position for me. Without work I cannot expect food and water, but the job isn’t meant to feed us as much as to allow me to scout areas of Angband unknown to my mate. I also happen to feel like a beast in a cage, and so am ready to do almost anything to get out of there.


	3. The dragonpit

Angband has a way of destroying hope.

Moryo is not one to express shame (he keeps that bottled up tight) or embarrassment, but I quite easily manage to read both of those between his freckles. Curufin, on the other hand, is _gloating_.

“Come on. This is a good posting, you know? I had to be quite convincing for Tar-Mairon to accept you with your reputation.”

Tar-Mairon is, apparently, Sauron’s new name since the fall of Gondolin, as if being called The Admirable wasn’t prideful enough and he had to add “the great” to his already boastful title.

“The dragonpit is an easy job. All you have to do is carry some meat, let it fall in the dragons’ cages, get some more meat… you won’t even have to cut it, the orcs take care of that.”

“Dragons breathe fire, Curufin. I don’t think they care about being behind bars.”

“Baby dragons do not breathe fire,” my brother-in-law answers matter-of-factly. “The adult ones can feed themselves. They know how to behave.”

I have serious doubts, but the dragonpit is miles away from the forges. Both are underground, situated in the enormous bowels of the mountains, and I can move freely from the smiths’ quarters to the pit, protected by the brand new, ugly stylized dragon that has been painted on my tunic.  This is, by our standards, the perfect job for me.

Only, it isn’t.

Neither Curufin nor Caranthir ever set foot in the dragonpit or anywhere near the part of Angband fondly called the _Womb_ by most orcs. The Womb, the most sacred place of horror under Thangorodrim, is discussed only in hushed whispers or not at all. The smiths remain wholly unknowing of what happens here.

The Womb is made of _flesh_.

The first time I descend to the pit, I take note of the tendrils running on the stone walls, white like a man’s tendons, thickening until the lining becomes pink, sickening hue like a skinned muscle. I walk down, down, down, until the walls pulse where thick, black veins run through them. I gag at the horror that I am now strolling inside a living body, with pillars of bones and open sores vomiting the squirming bodies of orcs.

Past the orcish nurseries where Morgoth gives birth to his recycled children, the path goes up a bit and we reach the dragon pit, Morgoth’s newest addition to this grotesque extension of himself.

The work is, physically, as easy as promised by Curufin. I am given a sack full of meat to throw into the hungry maws. The hardest part is to keep from wondering about the meat’s origin.  I hear quite a lot from the orcs and Maiar working there, information I would have killed to have before Gondolin’s fall, but not relevant at all to our current goals. I learn almost immediately that one beast out of ten actually survives to adulthood and that some of the meat given to the babies is harvested from their dead kin. I also learn that the old, big, lizard-like dragons are going to be outdated soon compared to the winged monsters the Dark God is working on.

Winged beasts; had Gondolin not been found, their coming would have been our doom anyway.

All hands are called forth for the birth of the first flying marvels. They rip the slimy, translucent membrane keeping them close to the flesh of the womb, falling down in tangles of weak limbs and clumsy wings, soft claws and sharp teeth cutting and opening unsuspecting bellies. The birthing turns into a carnage in some part as the brutal orcs handle their terrified charges with hands lacking gentleness.

I manage to calm my own hatchling, a beautiful, bluish creature with big, green, intelligent eyes. The beast settles down almost immediately under my hand, gobbling half his weight in meat. I almost feel sorry for him. He is nothing like the terrible serpents who climbed our walls: nimble, with a slender neck and wings rich like a butterfly’s, scales smooth and shining like so many sapphires. His smell is far less pleasant, but then, birds are rather bad smelling as well. I wonder at how a being as foul as Morgoth can create such beauty.

The little dragon seeks the warmth of my body in a puppy-like fashion. None of the others show affection as my dragon does. In his huge eyes, I can almost fancy myself back in Gondolin, laughing amidst a circle of friends…

“A brave soul, this one,” a voice whispers to my ear; the strength of it makes my bones tremble, even as I know no one else but me can hear him. “A soul tempered with Balrog’s fire – and the pure waters of his own fountain.”

Startled, I _look_ at the dozing dragon curled on my knees. I _look_ at the color of its eyes and find it back in my memories. I _look_ at the blueish tint and know one friend who was obsessed with such a shade. I listen to my spirit, to its joy as it finds…

I fight the urge to gag.

 _Ecthelion_.

My face, no, my body drains of all strength. I cannot process – no. I know this is true. I know why the dragon is so calm in my arms, when all others squeal and bite like panicked, angry, dangerous kittens. He knows me. Deep down, in some part of his now animalistic, monstrous brain, Ecthelion knows me. I am a safe haven, his friend, though he most probably can’t remember me.

The low voice chuckles against my ear. I do not know anymore if I wish to embrace my unfortunate comrade or push him away. The poor thing trembles in my arm (his master is feared, not loved, even by those who didn’t even have a chance to learn).

The black silhouette strolls slowly in the midst of the nursery, eerily silent as if he isn’t really there, his marred face content, gleaming with pride and malice. His dark cloak floats behind like noxious mist, around the black, sharp angles of his obsidian armor. I cannot have a glimpse at the Silmarils, but Morgoth’s crown is oddly shaded, as if he was trying to hide the iron spikes in black fumes.

The Dark Vala chuckles with mocking affection at each of his new creations, slick and gleaming, innocent in their youth and already savage. A bright red one with scales akin to Rog’s fiery hair devours viciously the still living orc originally set on feeding him. Two others are fighting over a single piece of meat, tearing at each other until their keepers finally manage to pull them away with reinforced nets.

I force myself to watch Morgoth despite the instinctive, dreadful fear. His pleased expression is a fixed mask of fake muscles; the result is as grotesque as it is chilling. He appraises each of his creation (his children), always orbiting around a single pod, fingers seeking the throbbing membrane of the outgrowth. Behind the semi-transparent film is the shadow of a last beast, bigger than all others, darker than the sick, pinkish hue of the bulge. The shade twitches; Morgoth caresses the sack, his gesture a mockery of gentleness.

“Sh, my lovely. Your time is near. Soon, you will emerge, more beautiful than any of these, stronger than everything the sky has ever seen. You need a little more time still.” He apply his blackened lips against the slimy film, whispering for all to hear. “ _Ancalagon_. I will keep you inside me still, until you are ready to serve and adore your true master.”

Ecthelion snakes his slim tail around my waist, his humid snout seeking my bloody hands for more. I pet him reassuringly, though I do not know if I am trying to soothe him or my shaken nerves. For I know, without a doubt, that only one soul would be strong enough to produce a beast thrice the size of my fellows captains, all born in Valinor, all valiant and strong and hardened by war and grief.

I know where Fëanor is.

Now, I have to figure out how I will tell his sons.

 


	4. Ancalagon

I have been a sexless creature ever since I set foot in Middle Earth.

When I first started to date Caranthir as a young adult, I didn’t think I would ever stop to want sex. We would meet in secret places and fondle each other with need born of countless aborted encounters and leave others quite sure that we would feel the need before the day’s end. I spent his whole exile in Formenos dreaming of him, his hands on me, of reddish hue of his black hair and how it smelt like lavender from the soap.

And then it just faded. The desire, the dreams, the lack of him froze somewhere between Losgar and the end of the march in frozen Helcaraxë. I didn’t feel like I missed something and our sole, brief encounter at Lake Mithrim did not rekindle the flame. We parted like strangers. I don’t think I even missed him, or perhaps I was so angry, so set on not wanting him back that I convinced myself.

Here we are, together again, and it’s like everything that happened between our teenage years and now, all those centuries with not so much as a single thought for sex, crumbles between my fingers and I can’t spend a single night by his side without us touching. Perhaps I should be concerned – by the lack of talking, by all the memories we do not talk about. I don’t want to share Gondolin. He tells nothing or almost nothing of Thargelion.

What he fine couple we make.

I come back from the pit to find myself immediately pulled into his arms, soothing palms caressing my back while I breathe, deeply, the musky scent of him: sweat mixed with soot and metal. I try to focus on the distraction of his hands trekking down to my buttocks, of his length getting harder once he reaches his favorite spot. Caranthir loves backsides, more than anything else, while I am thoroughly entranced by his freckled shoulders and strong forearms. I set my finger to them, but the little game of having the sensitive tip jumping from dot to dot doesn’t warm me as it should.

We kiss for a moment. I try to push all thoughts of Fëanor away to melt into my lover, smelling, touching, tasting him; I have no idea how to break the news to him, and if Caranthir is willing for sex, well, why not? I can still tell him later. Sex is good for the nerves, it’s fun and it is definitely what I need right now, right?

 I moan when his mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck, my now undressed chest, down to by belly and my cock. His warm mouth embraces me; his hands still caress my butt like worship.

Only that worship feels utterly pointless.

I always liked Caranthir forwardness when we have sex, so unlike his usual timidity. Outside the bed I usually am the one leading; between the sheets I am all his. I wonder if Caranthir will still allow me to lead now that he tried his hand at ruling. I have never refused to lay with him and suddenly, unexpectedly fear that he will refuse to stop.  I am of average height, my long, lithe limbs and my soft face usually granting me the nickname of youthful captain, while my lover inherited his mother’s strong shoulders and his father’s height; in such a narrow space, he could overpower me in an instant.

“What is bothering you?” he asks in a low growl. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, though it is wholly unnecessary: my body is unresponsive and my cock limp.

“Bad day at the dragonpit,” I answer, not knowing (yet) if now is the right time to bring up Fëanor. As shocked as I was, and as obvious Fëanor being Ancalagon is to me, I have absolutely no proof, and there is nothing that can be done before the dragon’s birth anyway. Furthermore, it is not Fëanor who occupies my mind now. My hands are still hitching with the feel of Ecthelion’s scaled skin. “A new batch of dragons hatched.” I don’t want to talk – to think about Ecthelion, who I last saw alive and breathing and laughing with the smile of an elf and now has a mouth full of fangs. “Winged ones.”

Caranthir hisses between his teeth. He turns away from me, breathing deep, the arousal seeping away quicker than it came. When he speaks, he tries to assume the mantle of coldness, but his voice is trembling with rage.

“Then those who remain stand no chance. Last I knew, the last defensible refuge was the island of Balar. Orcs cannot sail, but with winged dragons, such a small strip of water won’t stop them.”

I think of Earendil, still a child last I saw him, and grieve for the bleakness of his short life, at the unfairness of being born in a world bound to fall under the evil hand of Morgoth. I think of Idril and Tuor. I hope they are safe and wonder if her mortal husband will die of age or burn.

“He used souls from Gondolin,” I say, trying and failing to sound neutral. “I recognized some of my friends, captains and lords of houses.”

“Gondolin fell ten years ago. If He used their souls so quickly…”

“He did. I _knew_ them.”

“I believe you. I wish I didn’t but I do. This is fast. He took a century to conceive Glaurung and twice the time for that creature to grow to any usefulness...”

“Moryo!” I shout. I guess everyone in the hallway heard me. “Souls from Gondolin. My friends. People I knew for centuries. My friend Ecthelion is here. How can he be there?”

Was he dragged there by a Balrog? Or did Morgoth find some way to snatch spirits even without the help of his Maiar? Could it be that all of Beleriand will now belong to him in life and in death?

“Why not me? Why was I not used?” I grab Caranthir’s arm. He must have an answer. There must be. I cannot have been spared for no reason. “Why? Ecthelion and I are… were… the same. So why was he…”

He pulls me into his arms. I struggle against him, because Caranthir never talks when I want him to talk; I want to convince him, to make him, but my body breaks against his and all that comes out are angry sobs.

“I bought you,” he whispers. “I am sorry. We were told Gondolin had fallen – they always do this. They make us barter for our loved ones. They set a price. Most cannot pay.”

“What…”

“A design for a siege weapon,” he admits. “Well not a siege weapon at first. It was… a drill I designed for mining.”

I turn my bewildered eyes to him. So this, this is the price of my safety? A machine that may break walls or…

Mountains. It could breach mountains, or connect the hives of the orcs with the tunnels of the dwarves. My soul, my single soul would cost the world whole dwarven cities!

I cannot say anything. I read on Caranthir’s face how much his choice bothers him, how much shame he feels at having helped his enemy for my sake – but then, I shouldn’t be that surprised considering all he has done for his family. I am only surprised that he would do this for me.

 I try to gather back my wits, to push the thoughts of Ecthelion and of the bargain away. I need to find a way to strike back, to do whatever I can for those still living in the south.

For Earendil.

 “The Beast didn’t say anything about how long it would take for the dragons to grow. Perhaps we can still do something.”

“You saw him?” Caranthir’s hands grip my shoulders hard enough to hurt. “Are you alright?”

“He talked to me. Briefly. He didn’t do anything to me,” I quickly add to dispel his worried stare. “He just mocked me a little, but he was… busy. Is there anything we can have access to? Weapons?”

“We could try to smuggle some poison, but if anyone suspects anything and sell us, all the slaves remotely implicated will be tortured, killed or worse. At this point I very much doubt this will do any good. Do you think you can try to befriend the dragons? Glaurung was said to be quite clever. When the Valar come, if you can convince the dragons from Gondolin to switch sides, we could use that to help.”

“They didn’t seem that bright to me,” I admit. “I need to know more about them. None of them talked, but they were just hatched. Perhaps they will learn. Ecthelion seems to like me.”

And so I keep my hypothesis about Fëanor to myself and go back to work, day after day, feeding Ecthelion his weight in meat of unknown origin, my stare going back frequently to Ancalagon’s beating pod. The unborn dragon grows bigger and bigger, keeping pace with his freed brothers and sisters even as we feed them to oblivion.

Ecthelion has reached the size of a small horse when he finally utters his first word. He is the first one to speak; I was starting to despair at these dragons’ ability to do so, and wondering if they were even intelligent enough to be talked to. The sounds are clumsy but they are words, baby-talk really, and the repeated syllables of ada, ada, ada, his bloodied snout seeking caresses, warm my heart, if but a little.

Nonetheless, Ecthelion is the exception rather than the rule. Out of all the babies he is the only one who attempts to talk, and some of the other ones seem to be little more than brutal animals. The orcs’ needless cruelty causes far too many incidents and spurs most dragons toward mindless aggressiveness to the point that even I would not try my hand at my former comrades. Morgoth comes down from time to time, each of his visits a parade of yet more beating of the poor creatures as each orc tries to outdo his neighbor.

The Dark Lord is present in all his might for Ancalagon’s birth, a living tower of flesh and sharp angles, eyes alight with glee and envy. The membrane of the outgrowth breaks with a liquid sound, slashed open by the foot-long claws of the young dragon. His head pushes through the small opening, black as ink, and he lets out a pitiful baby-squeal as he takes his first gulp of air. The see-through film breaks under his weight. He falls down in a torrent of pinkish slime, a tangle of translucent ebony wings, clumsy paws and tail. He is already as big as Ecthelion.

Morgoth kneels in front of the struggling creature, studying, appraising this creation wrought by his own flesh. Ancalagon remains unaware: his little lungs are spiting the amniotic liquid out and his eyes are still glued together. He starts when the armored fingers trace the length of his spine, nose moving with each little inhalation.

Ancalagon slowly stands. The slime is already drying and coming off with each quiver, unveiling the shiny black scales with a hint of blue, the silver dots running like stars at the back of his wings, the small white horns protruding from his skull. The dragonet shakes himself clean and finally opens his eyes.

Silver eyes, alight with the memory of the Trees; no: alight with their kinship to the Silmarils.

Fëanor’s eyes.

Ancalagon blinks. The long slit of his pupil grows to accommodate the low light, focusing on his surroundings. From his throat erupts a surprisingly high shriek, as fragile and baby-like as my Ecthelion’s; yet I feel my blue friend shivering by my side, and watch as even the most rabid creatures cower at his voice. Morgoth made him the king of his beasts, and thus all of them bow to him.

Morgoth offers him his first meat, but the dragonet smells the piece without interest and leaves it untouched, most unlike his brethren. He looks up and studies his surroundings, dodging Morgoth’s next attempt to pet him with the quickness of a snake. The star-lit eyes focus on the steel hand, the black body tenses, until a snarl like a cat’s explodes from his opened jaws. Morgoth’s enormous hands fall to his head so quickly that even my elven sight cannot follow the gesture. The iron-clad fingers dwarf Ancalagon’s not-so-little head, pushing him to submission, ignoring his indignant, frightened hisses.

And then – fire erupts from Ancalagon’s open mouth, a blue flame scorching and bright, a flame unique for none of his subjects produced anything more than flying sparks.

The Vala steps back in wrath. The low light all but disappears, drowned in the darkness swarming around his body, pierced only by the red-hot tongues of the fire sprouting from Morgoth’s right hand.

Ecthelion moans in distress and burrows his head against my belly; even fierce, strong Rog cowers in the corner. Ancalagon’s screams fills the room, deafening, shaking bones and ears with rage and pain. Soon his attempts at scorching his master cease for he is young and still shaky on his legs, unable to breathe fire for long; then his groans turn into pleading mewls. Morgoth does not stop hitting until the hatchling lays unmoving on the floor, chest heaving, eyes closed, his whole body trembling with the pain of his burned skin. The tyrant orders the poor beast chained to the wall and walks away while I stare, transfixed.

Weakly, Ancalagon curls in his lonely, scorched spot, hiding his bloody snout in the curve of his tail. All heads turn away from him, one after another: he is Morgoth’s claim, and none can hope to wound or save the newborn.

I go back to my husband on shaky legs. How can I tell him that his father is here and that his first hours of rebirth were spent in agony and loneliness? I let myself be coddled by Caranthir, but his hair and skin smell of the forge, of soot and fire, and my senses keep bringing me back to the memory of Ancalagon’s blue fire, of the burnt stench of Morgoth’s flesh.

“We have to tell Curufin,” Caranthir tells me, brows furrowed so tightly they almost touch. When he is angry like this, eyes set under the shadow of his brows and skin flushed, he truly deserves his name. “I don’t know if he will be relieved or not – but he has to know. _Now_.”

“All right. I’ll go fetch him.”

Not that I have any choice: in the mood Caranthir is in, he’d better not meet Eöl on his way. The path to the dark elf’s chambers seems very short now that I know how to navigate the hallways and not get lost; I hardly have any time to recover from Caranthir’s shock before my fist bangs on the metallic door.

It is not Curufin who opens the door but Maeglin. His eyes widen in shock at seeing me and he starts, trying to close the door to my face. I am, however, quicker than his fumbling attempt, forcing him to step back as I enter his father’s apartments rather forcefully. Too late I think that Eöl may be there and Maeglin’s urge to keep me away motivated by something more than his newfound disgust for me, but we are alone.

“Why are you afraid of me?” I wonder if Curufin told him of the fate of our comrades, or if Maeglin holds anything untold against me. _You are blind_ , he said, but in these few words I cannot find the reason for his coldness.  “You can trust me, my prince. What is wrong?”

His eyes grow round, the white showing starkly around his dark pupils, before a stream of laughter erupts from his throat; not the happy, clear laugh of youth or humor (not that Maeglin was ever humorous in the first place), but a mad cackle.

“What is wrong… with me?” His voice stumbles between rows of broken sounds. “What is more… wrong… with me you mean? Than before?”

He dries his tearful eyes with the back of his hand.

“Don’t you know yet? Didn’t your _husband_ tell you?”

“My husband keeps to his own business, my pr…”

“Do not call me that!” he shrieks. This is not him. Maeglin was always a bit cold, deliberate and more than anything else, quiet. “I am not your _prince_. Do not pretend I was ever one of you.”

“This is not so! You were loved…”

“By whom? By whom, Glorfindel? My uncle, who only saw my mother in me? An heir by default because his…” He strangles on his own voice; his body strengthening up as if he was trying to get himself back under control. “You, and first and foremost the Lords from the West, with your shiny eyes and your disdain for things not of Valinor, you never truly gave me a chance. I was tolerated, Glorfindel.” He swallows and, the next moment, his face looks as calm and composed as it ever was in Gondolin, a perfect smooth mask that he shouldn’t be able to raise so quickly after such an outbreak. “Tell me, Glorfindel, if I was so _loved_ , why is it that no one noticed what was right in front of their eyes?”

“Is this what you truly felt?”

“What I felt is irrelevant. I am irrelevant – again, and it’s better that way.” He avoids my eyes. That, too, isn’t the Maeglin I know.

Is it, though? Now that I think of him, I remember that he didn’t meet my eyes in the last months before Gondolin’s fall. I thought it had something to do with Earendil’s birth (Maeglin had always disapproved of Tuor being allowed amongst us), but no, Earendil had been born for years. I tried to review all the little things I knew about Maeglin that somehow didn’t fit: the long sleeves despite the hot temperature in Angband, paralleling the long tunics he wore in Gondolin even during the warmest day of summer.

My thoughts are interrupted by Maeglin’s sudden change of attitude, from defensive to panicked, and I am roughly shoved toward what must look like the only hiding place available to his scared mind – his father’s closet.

“My father is coming home,” he whispers in a few anxious huffs. I would gladly tell him that pushing me into his dad’s closet is hardly the best solution, but I do not think, at this point, that Maeglin is able to think clearly. The metallic door closes on me, and I am left in the dark, the sole light coming from the lock, now deprived of its key since Maeglin saw fit to _imprison me inside_.

This day is getting better and better.

I try to stay confident. I won’t be able to open the closet without Maeglin’s assistance and I _hope_ the prince is not going to leave me here. I have to be at the dragonpit in five hours, though, and lateness is not well-accepted in Angband.

“Must you always act like a victim?” I hear Eöl hisses as soon as he enters into his chambers. Maeglin mumbles something I cannot understand that makes his father sigh. “Go away. I really can’t bear looking at what a _wreck_ you are when you behave like this.”

Maeglin mutters rushed apologies. A door closes, perhaps the one to his own chamber. Eöl’s apartments have the luxury of having a room acting as a kitchen and living room and two chambers. I try to divine what the smith is doing by sound only, but can’t manage that past the point of hearing that he is not alone.

After much sighing and the sound of water falling into a metallic recipient, and too long silence during which I wonder how no one can hear my breathing, Eöl’s voice reaches me again.

“Everything is his mother’s fault. You know that, do you? I _see_ how you look at him. I want him safe. If that bitch hadn’t left like a _thief_ in the night, if you hadn’t helped her go…”

I grit my teeth.

“She _lied_. I know what they accused me of. I never forbade her to do anything. She hated her fucking creep of a brother. She hated you and she despised this blond beast of a dog fucker you were living with. She came to me of own free will and then she lied so she wouldn’t have to tell you all how much she _hated_ you.”

I hear Curufin make a nondescript sound, something like “hm hm”.

“You should have heard what she had to say about her father. A cold, psychopathic, overambitious beast. Crown stealer. She said it was his fault your crazy father burnt his ships for stealing his crown in the first place. Not that any of you are any better: you were all stealing our lands. And Turgon! A lazy coward with no heart at all.”

Curufin still _hum-hums_ at regular interval.

“Maeglin was safe with me. _I_ would have protected him. These are dark times, when sons do not listen to their fathers and refuse their protection.” Silence. “But you know that, don’t you? You also have an ungrateful son.”

“Yes. Of course you are right.”

“Do you think I do not see how you look at my son? I know what you think. He’s not _your_ son. He will never be your son.” A faint gasp of pain. “You know, I wasn’t sure of you. Your reputation as a liar precedes you, but then, my reputation is exaggerated as well. I still do not trust you, _pet_. I will never trust you. But Maeglin likes you and I think you _do_ love him as well.”

“I do. I want to stay with you. We could be family.” The rustle of rough fabric, and the slight creaking of wood suddenly supporting too much weight. There is a single armchair made of wood in Eöl’s quarters. “You, me, your son. _You_ would never abandon me and I will never go away… ah…”

“Liar…”

Curufin makes another nondescript sound, a “ngh” that may be brought by pain but…

“I’m… all… ah… yours…”

No. Not pain, or at least, pain mingling with pleasure. By the Valar, I am locked in their damn closet while they have sex two meters away from me! Just how am I supposed to look into Caranthir’s eyes after _that_? Into Maeglin’s? How will I erase Eöl grunts weaved with Curufin’s increasingly loud moans?

Curufin finally stops shouting, but the lull is only a temporary improvement before I start as a full grown body hits the closet and the moans start anew, now with the addition of the metallic doors creaking each time Eöl pushes Curufin (or at least, I guess it is Curufin and not the other way around) against them. The dark elf grunts, incoherent apart from a single word repeated over and over: Glamren, Glamren, _Glamren_ … a word that would only make sense if it was Curufin’s name, since its meaning, _echoing_ , isn’t quite relevant here, unless the easterner Sindarin dialect has an homonym I don’t know, or can’t remember, a very likely possibility since Curufin’s now renewed moaning keeps any sensible thought away from my head.

“ _I hate you_ ,” he repeats in Quenya amongst other abuses, “ _I hate you, I swear I’ll kill you fucking barbarian…_ ”

“Filthy invader… always… thinking you are better than us… disgusting language…”

“… _creep_ … _rapist_ …”

If anything, Curufin talking in Quenya seems to spur Eöl into even _more_ vigorous humping and groans, interrupted now and then by derogatory comments about the Noldor, matched by Curufin’s own insults in Valinorean. There is a loud “bang” against the door of the closet and I wonder if Curufin did that on his own or if Eöl did; the dark elf keeps going for a little more, and then both fall silent, their heavy breathing still an inch away from me.

“Are you alright? You hit that pretty hard.”

“I was too _busy_ to notice,” Curufin answers, and I know it was his head against the door. “Thank you for caring, master.”

I hear steps walking away from the closet.

“You know why I treat you harshly.”

“I know,” says the voice closer to me. “I know she hurt you terribly. I know what you went through. I understand.” Curufin walks away from me. “I know you don’t want to hurt me, or Maeglin. I know you sometimes do because I am a terrible person and this is the only way for you. It’s my fault, not yours. I have wronged your people terribly. I deserve the punishment.”

There is a long silence.

“Is that why you are with me, Glamren? _To lessen your guilt?_ ”

“No. I am in Angband. That is enough. But I am happy to serve you. You gave me a name I like, you protect me from the worst of this place, you allow me to care for you son. You even helped my brother get back the man he loves. When you punish me… you bring balance for the relief you give me. Thank you.”

I doze through the last of their perverted chatter. At some point Eöl’s voice dims and turns into light snores, replaced by Curufin talking softly with Maeglin. I start when two pairs of feet approach and have to close my eyes when Curufin wrenches the door open. There isn’t much light, but still enough for me to blink.

My brother-in-law says nothing. He grabs me by the wrist and leads me out. I meet Maeglin’s apologetic eyes, but he just remains there, lips thin as a line.

“Do not tell Caranthir of what you overheard,” Curufin orders once we reach the hallway. “He wouldn’t understand.”

I have almost forgotten why I was here in the first place.

“Why is he calling you Glamren?”

“Because he renamed me, obviously.”

“Don’t you mind?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He throws me a glare of disdain, but I do not back down. I can’t remember a single time when I didn’t have to endure Curufin’s scorn or him acting like I was some vanyarin shit. To him, I was some side-spawn of Indis and deserved to be treated like I didn’t deserve to be born. But I have power now – I know where his father is. For once, I will be the one getting what I want from a conversation with him instead of being mocked by clever words play I cannot understand until I fall headfirst into Curufin’s traps.

“Does it occur to no one that my names of birth are utterly _gross_?” He says as if stating the evidence. “They aren’t _mine_.” Curufinwë is his father’s name, though very few of our people ever called him thus, for Fëanor was well known for preferring his mother’s name. Atarincë, his mother-name, meant little-father and was just never used. He swallows; as if Angband is a way of bringing up every painful, untold secret we hold. “Echoing sounds true, doesn’t it? I am nothing more than a shard of Fëanor. I’m nothing but an _echo_ of him. But at least Glamren is my own name, not my father’s.”

“I found your father.”

Curufin twitches violently.

“Where? Where is he?”

We are in the middle of a hallway: truly not the place were I should drop such news.

“I will tell you, but first, I want to know what is wrong is Maeglin.”

Curufin glare’s pierces me with disbelief; then something just cracks behind his eyes. I went too far by trying to barter with his father’s existence; I open my mouth to apologize. I am not a cruel person. Dumb, yes, and I speak before I think too often than not, but not cruel. But Curufin pushes me – hard – against the wall before I can take this back and repair the damage.

I am no weakling. I may not have my former strength, but I am slowly rebuilding my muscles and am, by Ulmo, so tired of being bossed around that I just launch myself at him. The will to erase my blunder is gone, replaced by the need to let out the frustration of being utterly powerless to do _anything_ , by the frustration of understanding nothing that happens here, of seeing more and more of us bound and broken and twisted by this place – even those who, on the outside, seem unchanged.

“I am not your punching bag, Curufin – or whatever your new name is. I am not a servant and I am not going to be ordered around getting nothing in return. You will tell me about Maeglin or you can go fuck yourself.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he hisses, swatting my hand away like it a fly. “Ever wondered how Morgoth found Gondolin?”

I stare at him, dumbfounded – no, it cannot be. No one got out of Gondolin… though Maeglin had been absent for a long time two years before the fall. He had returned with frequent smiles and laughs, as if some dark cloud had been lifted from his heart, and many had wondered at this sudden joy.

But he started to cover his arms.

But he started to avoid my eyes.

 _You are blind_.

 _I am not your prince_.

_If I was so loved, then why is it that no one noticed what was **right in front of their eyes**?_

I fight the urge to gag.

“Why?”

“Why? Why did Maeglin betray you? You ask the wrong question, Glorfindel. The real question is _how_. He was tortured. Then he was scared. And then he was _alone_. This is how he betrayed you.”

“I do not believe you. Maedhros – ”

“Maedhros betrayed us,” he cuts before I have the time to invoke his infamous brother. “Why do you think we did not go and save him? We wanted to. We were planning to infiltrate Angband to try to take him out when orcs attacked our camp, targeting all of our weakest points at the same time. We knew my brother had betrayed us and we stopped planning.” His fingers dig into his arms. “Until Fingon brought him back, this was the only way we could think about him. A traitor. We wrote everything he did under this new light: why he opposed the burning of the ships, why he pleaded for our cousins to come. Everything he had said, we tried to decipher if the Enemy had inspired his ways. Until Fingon rescued him and we _saw_ what had been done to him. _Everyone_ breaks, Glorfindel. The attack on our camp, the attack on Gondolin, they were neither Maedhros’ nor Maeglin’s fault.” He takes a step toward me, his whole stance threatening. “Now, where is my father?”

“In the dragonpit.” I answer with a weak voice. I never wanted to keep that from Curufin. I wanted to find him and tell him – how did we end up fighting with each others? “He’s called Ancalagon now.”

Curufin’s face crumbles beneath the weight of mismatched emotions, torn between pain, disbelief and relief. Shame creeps into by chest. Fëanor’s fate shouldn’t have been a bargaining chip, much less with his sons.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you right away.”

Curufin’s fist hits my chin with a hammer’s strength. I do not try to dodge. All I want is to repair what I did, but how?

“Yes,” he says. I massage my painful jaw and stands up. There are tears in his usually placid eyes, his single, most grievous weakness unearthed. “You should have.”


	5. Armed with fire

Never were the dread and terror elicited by Morgoth heavier than in those days following Ancalagon’s birth. With each new meal come renewed screams of pain and distress from the poor monster. Each refusal of the meat held out by the Enemy is rewarded with a heavy hand, fiery whips and a beating that leaves the dragonet half-conscious on the floor.

Despite Ancalagon’s rejection of food, he grows quickly, though not prettily as his limbs elongate into a too-thin beast. His skin is dotted with burns, some half-healed, others still fresh and oozing pus.

And then he starts watching me.

He watches me when I feed Ecthelion, he mewls pitifully when I pet the blue dragonet and eyes me with huge starry eyes each time my companion curls around me. Alone of all dragons, Ancalagon is chained to the wall; from time to time I hear the clicking of the rings of steel, raise my gaze and spy the miserable thing pulling on his bonds, trying to reach whoever may give him some relief.

No one ever does. Ancalagon is Morgoth’s special pet.

Each day, I go back to Caranthir and Curufin. Each day, my report is the same: the sorry transcription of their father’s clueless pain, of the torture and pleas. Caranthir listens with his jaw set, unreadable, a storm brewing at the back of his dark eyes, and the bottled up anger building in his shoulders, turning them into sheer hardness once I set my finger to massaging them afterwards. Beleriand changed Caranthir. Once, his rage would have gone out spontaneously with an honesty that was, according to my lover, one of his only redeeming qualities. Now, he keeps everything inside and lets go only when his orgasms break the fragile shell of self-control coating his feelings. My body displays more than a few bruises won during our most passionate couplings.

Curufin is another matter.

“I dream of chains. I dream of _him_ ,” he says, his agile hands dancing too fast from his hair to his arm to his clothes. Caranthir tells me he is hungry all the time now, and a bag of nerves unable to be soothed. “ _Do_ something. Help him.”

“Glorfindel cannot do anything and you know that. That would be suicide.”

Caranthir always defends me; or, more precisely, he always does so before I even have the time to do so myself, as if he needs to prove again and again and again that he is loyal to me. I do not reprimand him despite the growing annoyance in my guts: I do understand why he acts so. We shall speak of it but not now, not at the beginning of what is doomed to turn into a fight between my lover and his brother.

Curufin’s glare is hard to bear. His fair face, his dark hair, but first and foremost his burning eyes reminds me too much of his father –of Ancalagon, with his pleading, silver eyes, seeking a relief I cannot offer. Cowards, he must think, misreading my tolerating of Caranthir’s behavior as me hiding behind him.

“Cannot or will not? This is F _ather_ we are talking about. He would have done everything for us, Moryo, everything, and yet we would leave him to suffer alone?”

“And what would you have Glorfindel do?” Caranthir hisses, an angry tiger crouched in his throat. “I went with you to Doriath, for Father, to Beleriand for Father, to fucking _Angband_ for Father! I left Mother and _everything_ I loved behind for Father! Do not dare to accuse me of disloyalty because I won’t ask my husband to kill himself!”

“You do not understand!”

“Of course I do not, I am just black-sheep Moryo, am I not? I am not father’s precious little replica, so I cannot understand what you feel, Curufinwë? Because one has to be father’s favorite to care for him?”

Silence falls upon them like a sword. Curufin gathers his wits and summons his haughtiest expression, an unfortunate reminder of his father’s snort, then turns on his heels to leave.

“Wait!” Caranthir catches him before he leaves our alcove. “I am sorry.” He pulls his brother into a hard embrace, his finger twisting into his hair. “I…”

“I know. Just stop talking, all right?” The brothers are of the same height but Caranthir inherited the wide shoulders of Nerdanel; Curufinfits easily into his freckled’s brother’s arms. “This is… driving me mad. Being so close to Father again. Just when I was… getting used, somehow, to being separated from him. I used to treasure this bond between us. He loved us so much, Moryo, I just had to close my eyes to feel how much he cared… now I only feel hunger and fear and pain. Please. Please find a way because I cannot bear this. I cannot even _think_ or work anymore. _Please_.”

“There is something,” I interject, almost embarrassed at having to take part into this increasingly personal conversation. “It is not much, but perhaps you _could_ see him. Ancalagon is growing fast and the chains will not hold him down for long. Someone will have to make new ones and fasten them.”

“Our team could do this if Eöl approaches Mairon and convinces him that he is the best for the job,” Caranthir adds, quickly following my lead. Curufin always called me a light-headed idiot in Valinor, but I am not nearly as stupid as he thought. “Conveniently, this is probably the truth. I think Mairon would approve of this.”

“Eöl will not put his name forward. He is very cautious,” Curufin says, “not to attract His attention.”

“I am sure you will find something to convince him,” I answer none too gently.

“I will do as much as I can, of course, but I am merely a servant to him.” My eyes widen at the blatant lie. “Eöl is suspicious of me.”

“Well, neither Moryo nor I can do anything to convince him, can we?”

****

As I expected but much to Caranthir’s surprise, Curufin shows up the next morning convinced of his victory: Eöl’s team will be charged with the making of the chains and help the dragons caretakers to bind Ancalagon.

When the day comes, a smell of danger hangs upon the dragonpit. The cavern of flesh is becoming too small for the dragonets, whose aggressiveness increases with their ability to burn, disembowel and eat other living creatures. In addition to the smell of fire and reptile skin, we now have to tolerate the delicate fragrances of dragon shit, rot, and the sweet, sick odor of open wounds.

Ecthelion fares better than most. He may not be as big and ferocious as Rog, but I care for him far better than all others, and he is in pristine health. He can even speak a little now, much like a child. Most dragons do speak, but none as well as Ecthelion for lack of companionship; I am a bit worried that Ancalagon shows no intention to do so : on the contrary, it is becoming common knowledge that he is rather stupid.

Despite Ancalagon’s lack of wits, though, all dragons seem, at a deep, instinctive level, to bow to him. I wonder: if Fëanor’s soul could somehow be awakened, would Ancalagon be able to turn all the winged dragons against Morgoth? Or did the Black Foe somehow predict that his favorite would turn against him and plan in advance?

Is that why Ancalagon cannot speak? Or does he merely needs someone to stimulate him into doing so?

The black dragon hisses when the blacksmiths approaches. His new chains, forged in the deep, suffocating caverns of Angband, are so big they have to be assembled near the beast itself. Whether Ancalagon is merely curious of these new people or suspicious is a bet rather than a certainty. I have been required to help due to my successes with Ecthelion: I hope very dearly that Ancalagon will behave and refrain from roasting me.

Needless to say, nothing happens as predicted.

The disaster starts when Maeglin, who is supposed to assist his father in all things, suddenly drops everything with a great clatter of iron, eyes wide and breath ragged, his hands trembling so hard he has to clasp his arms with white fingers to keep them still. I notice, with a start, that the smell in the dragonpit is reminiscent of the last day of Gondolin; of the charred flesh of its people, of the incendiary hit of the wingless dragons that assaulted our doors. I am so used to it that I barely register the scent anymore. I spy Curufin as he quickly put my prince away, kneeling by him. The offered comfort is the perfect cover to keep him well away from Morgoth’s glare; his half lidded eyes suggest that there are more going on inside his skull than mere caring for my prince.

The smiths all wear thick gloves, clothes of leather and protective helmets, none of which will protect them should Ancalagon decide to shower them with his blue flames. I recognize Caranthir by the shape of his face, the wide shoulders and high stature matched only by Eöl: all of them are covered in soot, turning their skin black.

Ancalagon doesn’t burn them, but he refuses to cooperate and grows even more nervous when Morgoth appears, as if from nowhere, clouded in shreds of darkness, a sly smile on his face.

“I bet he finds us very amusing,” Caranthir growls, helmet up, trying to win back his breath. Our three attempts to somehow approach Ancalagon have been fruitless thus far. “Eöl was a thrall there once, before He came back from Valinor. He escaped some time before his return. I don’t know who is the funniest – he or us.”

“This is not working. Ancalagon has been pushed too far already,” I note. To my surprise, Eöl seems perfectly satisfied to let his best smith away from the fray, petting his son like a father would a child terrified by nightly terrors. “We may need Curufin for this, if indeed he can still rely on his bond with his father.”

“He is the last person in Beleriand who should approach this dragon,” Caranthir whispers furiously. “What do you think will happen if he makes friends with His favorite toy? Good grief, even Eöl knows better than to let Curufin _anywhere_ by Him.”

“What are you two _doing_?” Eöl shouts to us, negating what sympathy his behavior may have arisen. “Blondie! Aren’t you supposed to be a dragon tamer?”

“Ancalagon is not his dragon,” Caranthir answers hotly.

“Caranthir,” I breathe. I am in the dragonpit, a dragon tamer, and this is my territory. I know what I am doing better than my husband. Why can’t he let me deal with the dark elf?

 “Glorfindel is not going to get himself roasted for your pleasure!”

“Caranthir can you _please_ …”

“I was asking your whore. Remember your place, thrall.” Even under the soot, I can spot Caranthir’s cheeks darkening; his fingers flex closed, the thick, charred leather of the gloves cracking. “I do not care how he does the job, but he is going to calm that dragon or die trying.”

“You really do have a problem with me, don’t you?” I step forward, gesturing Caranthir to stay put, giving him _the glare_ : I do not need anyone to defend me – not when I have proven, time and time again, that I am a seasoned, efficient warrior. I defeated a damned Balrog, something even Fëanor failed to do. What is Eöl for me? “What I have done to deserve such spite?”

“There is something very interesting about death,” Eöl breathes through his teeth, his face a mask of barely restrained fury, mere inches from my face. He is not the bulkiest elf I ever met, but he is quite tall. “You don’t actually forget what happened. I may not have been fluent in quenya but I do understand slurs. _Moriquendi_ , you called me, and you laughed at your king’s condemnation.” The dark elf straightens his back, towering over me and looking at me down his aquiline nose. “Now _go_ or I will have you flogged.”

The shrug I answer with, as if the ordeal was benign, is meant to appease Caranthir before he tries to strangle Eöl right under Morgoth’s eyes. I try not to look at the dark lord and fail not to notice his amused grin. Half his court went down to witness the chaining of Ancalagon: Sauron, whom we call Mairon to avoid flogging; the dark winged Thuringwethil, her full lips and wide hips shaped into seductive forms that her master ignores gleefully. Both of them have been low in their lord’s favor ever since Luthien managed to wrench a Silmaril from his crown. Closer to Morgoth’s throne stands the Balrog Nardis, cloaked in fire and dark fumes; my own foe, the demon who plummeted to her death and brought me down with her.

I advance slowly toward Ancalagon, palms up. Words of comfort stumble upon my tongue. The silver eyes follow me, boring right into my soul with reproach. Now is too late a time to get Ancalagon’s trust. Months of pretending that I did not care ranked me among his enemies, the silent partner in crime of his tormentor. A low growl rumbles down his throat. _Do not approach. Do not come near me. I am afraid, and armed with fire._

_Do not approach._

Nonetheless I do.

One step at a time.

_Do not come near me._

Slow but deliberate. I must not stop lest I turn and run.

_I am afraid._

Ancalagon retracts on himself like a cat ready to pounce. I am smaller than a mouse, and his breath scorches hot against my skin.

_And armed with fire._

The fan of blue flames explodes from his jaws, far above my head. Still I flatten, my leather-clad hands foolishly trying to protect my head. I am alive, I repeat, in thoughts and perhaps in words. I am alive.

For now.

I lay still in hope of a lull. Ancalagon’s roars echo like thunder above my head; his claws screech as chalk on slate. His wings spread as wide as the cavern allows, battering the stale air into rushing wind. He is storm incarnate, pulling on the bonds set on his incarnation with the fury unleashed by Fëanor on the Plaza of Tirion. Were his chains to break, I would be near enough for him to snap my whole body between his teeth.

They don’t break; they take with them a bloody chunk of the wall, juicy like torn muscle.

I scramble away from the raging monster on my hand and knees; my dignity can go rot in Mandos for all I care. Strong hands catch my by the shoulders and I am half dragged, half put back on my feet by Caranthir. My foolish lover! Does he hope Ancalagon will not hurt him? There is no recognition in the dragon’s eyes. If Fëanor truly inhabits this shell, then he does not know his son anymore.

We are, unexpectedly, saved from certain cremation by the fiery whip of Nardis. The white-hot tongue snaps through the air, hitting Ancalagon straight on the snout. Surprise and pain both mingle in his angry mewl, followed by the quick retreat of his pointy head back toward his crouched body. The Balrog’s teeth are bared in glee, huge fangs protruding from the vaguely elven-shaped face. The fiery bitch enjoys herself; enjoys the pain, the show of dominance over the Children’s best; over fire and flight materialized.

She raises her arm, ready to strike, when a voice resurrected from memories boom toward her, charged with power and a will strong enough to bend thousands of hearts. Heads turn; Ancalagon’s slim neck curves, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly opened, a forked tongue darting as if to taste the smell of this newcomer.

It is not Fëanor who strides toward the winged beast. His hair has a brownish tint unlike the colder glow of Fëanor’s raven mane; his clothes are not princely, his shoulders slightly bulkier, and his eyes a mix of blue and grey rather than pure silver. Yet at this moment, there is in Curufin the same flame, the same drive that inflamed us in Tirion. The echo of the Silmarils is alight in his eyes; nor the soot on his skin, nor can the rags on his back conceal the strength of his spirit.

When he claims that he will deal with this, all listen and bow.

Ancalagon lowers his head toward this new challenger, only to find no challenge. The small, fragile creature in front of him, dwarfed by Nardis and more so by his own frame, shows neither fear nor hostility. He simply _is_ , a perfect reflection of his former self, hand raised palm up, welcoming, accepting, something that finally _makes sense_.

 _Approach_ , his body seems to say, lowering himself to the ground. _Come near me_ , he whispers, finding Curufin’s open fingers with his snout. The hand strokes the scarred scales with infinite care; the elf’s body tenses up, raising himself on the tip of his toes to embrace the fuming nose with both hands. _I am so afraid. I am so afraid and lost_.

“I am with you. I am here. I know you,” the noldo recites with the sincerity of a mantra repeated a thousand times and more. Ancalagon’s eyes close lazily, his head laying on the ground, soon followed by his whole body. Curufin’s arms circle the snout, caressing, humming softly in otherworldly contentment.

Love, happiness, peace: those have no place in Angband. The passion I found back in Caranthir’s arms is riddled with sickness and resentment. We make love to avoid speaking and retain secrets that loom over us (Doriath; Doriath is a name whispered, and I dare not know why). The sight of Curufin, so cold in the years following his father’s death, so infamous for his sharp tongue, the sight of this great prince curled around Ancalagon, radiating serenity, is the queerest thing I have witnessed since I set foot in Endorë. I take the measure of the wide wings, the enormous, sinuous length of black scales, the claws, each the size of Curufin’s long hands, the eyes as big as my head, and wonder in awe about this miracle: the miracle of a single, twisted elf taming this power by a single, gentle touch.

Ancalagon lays still during the whole process of untying is old chains to set the new ones on. I help Eöl’s team with my heart beating fast, but the dragon’s obedience is complete. We all feign ignorance of the silent tears rolling down Curufin’s cheeks, his heart bleeding with the betrayal committed.  At least the last collar is fastened. I leave to Caranthir the chore of pulling his brother away from their father. There is no resistance but for Curufin’s stricken face, the way his fingers linger on the scales until they can only part from the dragon’s skin.

I breathe again. Ancalagon remains calm. Caranthir leads Curufin away. No one was burnt, no one was killed, though the fire scorched me and Nardis looks disappointed by the lack of beating involved.

“ _Wait_.”

The words resonates through our body. The softness bellies the power. Ugly and grotesque though he may be, Morgoth is a master of words whose subtleness rivals Fëanor’s; the magic simmering under the deceptive gentleness is an easy reminded that he his lord and master inside this corrupted womb.

“Curufinwë,” he says, using the name Curufin shared –still shares with his father. “How unfortunate. I believe I may have _forgotten_ I hosted you in my humble abode.”

Curufin’s face is unreadable; Caranthir’s finger twitch on his brother’s shoulder. The Enemy raises his hand and gestures playfully for Curufin to approach. He does, with no apparent reluctance but for the stiffness of their usually smooth strides.

“What an admirable display of power. And here I was, thinking you two were mere embers, little puffs of ashes gone with the winds.  I see you are, indeed, the _true_ successor of your father, Curufinwë.”

“The comparison honors me.”

“As it should. Your father was exceptional in so many ways.” The black lips curl on sharp teeth. “As was his _death_.”

Caranthir starts forward, his momentum quickly interrupted by my hand on his arm. I can easily imagine the anger tensing my husband’s face. The provocation is obvious. It is the game of a predator toying with helpless preys, with their pride and resentment. I breathe in, screaming inside at Caranthir to remain _still_ , hoping that his spirit will catch my words and that he will, for once, listen to me. We went too far already, we found his father and we know we can communicate with him; it is only a matter of time and will before we escape, carried by the speed of Ecthelion’s wings.

“It was, indeed, quite spectacular,” Curufin answers carefully. Of all his former life’s scars, only the burns inflicted on his hands when Fëanor self-combusted remained at his rebirth.

“Perhaps, then, should I provide for you the mean to emulate your father in all things,” The Vala slouches on the improvised throne that carved itself into the dripping walls at his arrival, his smile growing too far to keep up the pretense of elfishness, almost as far as the beginning of the ears. For a few seconds, there is nothing alarming but the dreadful smile, the pointed teeth and wholly black eyes.

Until Curufin’s hand flies to his chest.

An explosive gasp erupts from his mouth. His lips form words, silent and unheard; he crumbles into the ground, voiceless, breathless.

Dying.

“Let us all remember,” Morgoth states, his deep voice covering Caranthir’s screams, “that you owe your bodies, your life to _me_. Your hearts beat at _my_ command. The air in your chests is sucked into your blood because _I_ allow it to. The nerves running under your skin give you pleasure and pain as _I_ wish. I can kill you with a thought, Curufin, because I own you like I own your father’s last moments. _I_ commanded his body to burn.”

The sight, the feel of his sons’ suffering enrages Ancalagon. The great dragon springs forward, only to be pulled back with a loud “snap!” by the chains forged by his sons. The loud cries of anger turn into pained, desperate squeals while Curufin suffocates, then into mournful keening; Curufin’s hand reaches in vain for his father, trembling, weaker with each passing moment, Caranthir crying over him in despair and anger as Eöl and I, united for once, keep him from running foward; crying for his brother, dying again while he watches, powerless, the light go out of his eyes.

“Master!” I see Maeglin dart toward them, falling to his knees in prostrated adoration. “Master, I beg of you,” he says, mouth close to the ground. “For my service to you, I was promised Idril. I beg of you, Great King of Arda, to grant me Curufin instead. A prince of the House of Finwë for a Princess.”

Morgoth tilts his head in amusement. His answer is long to come; the moment stretched wide by Curufin’s death throes.

“My dear Lomion,” the dark lord purrs, using the secret name granted by Aredhel, the one that was known but never used in Gondolin. Like a lover he pronounces the syllables. “Idril I offered because of the great love you bore her. My heart would bleed to watch you settle for less. Unless… your feelings for your cousin are, indeed, of the same nature?”

“I love him. Please.”

“I will consent.” The corner of the dark lips tugs upward. “If you kiss him, as you dreamt of kissing sweet Idril. Convince me that your desire for him runs true and strong, Lomion, and the thrall is yours.”

The prince rises to his feet, skin pale and eyes wide. Nonetheless his stride is firm, his hands assured when he takes the limp body to kiss him, deeply, with the fumbling innocence of one unused to such caresses. When no breath comes to Curufin’s lips, he lays him down and proceeds to his neck, under Caranthir’s disgusted glare.

Suddenly, a great inhalation raises Curufin’s chest; he gulps desperately, eyes wide, his whole body twitching with life.

“Granted,” Morgoth gloats. “You may keep your bride as payment for this depraved show, Lomion.”

Maeglin kneels back to the ground, thanking our tormentor with profusion; yet I can summon no disgust for him. I have seen caretakers eaten alive or burnt by dragons, thralls whipped to death, friends changed into animals; I have seen Maeglin as a wreck unable to stand for himself.

Disgusting as this was, at least he tried.

 


	6. A braid in amber

Maeglin and Caranthir carry Curufin back to Eöl’s quarter. The dark elf does not offer to help. His face, of a darker shade than our own, remains unblemished by smile or scowl; there is, however, a look in his eyes that bears ill tidings.

We deposit Curufin in the wooden chair, limp with exhaustion both mental and physical. It is unusual for all of us to be there, in Eöl’s presence, and tension runs thick in the air.

“This was a very stupid move, Maeglin.”

“Your son _saved_ Curufin,” Caranthir interjects. “Would you rather have let him die?”

“Do you Noldor _ever_ think? He wasn’t going to kill Curufin. He was teaching him a lesson. Why would He kill the only person Ancalagon cares about? As long as can threaten him, Ancalagon will behave. You just handed Him a most precious boon .”

“Curufin did what he thought was right!”

“Perhaps you should stop, kinslayer. The righter you try to set things, the worse they always become,” Eöl growls. “Did you think me unaware of your plans? Do you think I ignore you theory about whose soul was used for Ancalagon?”

“How?” Curufin wheezes.

“You are not nearly as subtle as you think, Glamren. You whisper in your sleep.”

“He whisp…” Caranthir falls silent, grey eyes travelling from Eöl to Curufin’s embarrassed face, to Maeglin’s pinched lips, back to Curufin and finally Eöl. “You filthy… you have been fucking my brother?!”, he yells in disbelief, as if unable to decide whether he is certain or still asking, angry or appalled or still processing.

“He didn’t know?” Eöl asks, lightly, to a blushing Curufin. Spying the Crafty with red cheeks is quite a rare sight. “Your brother offered.”

“You fucking liar!” Caranthir lashes out, sending him crashing against the wall under his weight. “Do you think I don’t know about Aredhel? Do you think I will believe a single word from a rapist who abducts women?”

“You will leave my wife out of this, kinslayer, or you will find yourself in much troubles should you try to fuck you whore,” such is Eöl answer, tapping the slim knife protruding from his sleeve against Caranthir’s groin. “I have honor, but not for cursed murderers, not from someone guilty on killing unarmed women and children.”

“Can you two please stop?” I ask, but common sense seems to be shared only by Maeglin.

 “We are _all_ criminals here.” Maeglin pushes himself between them. “The filthiest of the filthiest. I am _tired_ of this.”  He throws a pleading look to his father.

“Caranthir,” I grab his arm, following the prince’s lead. “Let's go. There is nothing to achieve there.”

I feel the tension under my fingers. For one moment I fear Caranthir will not listen and will seek a fight, but the instant I lose hope in his ability to control himself is the moment when he pulls away, a dark stare searching my face before he turns and leave. I follow him quickly, worried that he doesn't seem to care whether I follow.

“You knew,” he says as soon as we arrive in our alcove, his voice cold with anger. “Don't pretend you didn't. You knew about Eöl and my _brother_ and you told me nothing.”

“Curufin asked me to keep his secret.”

“I didn't know your loyalty went to Curufin.”

“Are you - “

“You are **my** husband!” he explodes, “Curufin I can get because Curufin is fucking _nut_ , Glorfindel! But you! I thought I could trust you!”

“You can, but this was Curufin's problem, not mine! I am not going to put my nose into his business, just like I don't want him to come and have his say about what we are doing.”

“What we are doing? And what would that be? Lying to each other?”

“While we are speaking about lies, Caranthir, what in Mandos happened in Doriath?”

“They had a Silmaril. We killed them and they killed us.”

The words are out of his mouth without any hesitation, charged with wrath rather than shame. I open my mouth, appaled, and my own words struggle out.

“And that’s it? That’s it, Caranthir? No “they shot first” like in Alqualondë? No “that was a mistake”?”

He watches me with cold eyes.

“How can you say something like this? What happened, Caranthir? What did you _do_?”

“I did what they did to Curufin and Celegorm,” the son of Fëanor all but growls. “When Himlad fell during the Dagor Bragollach, they were forced to retreat. Their troops covered the retreat of civilians as well. Doriath was right behind them, untouched, but what did they do? Did they open their door for the children? For those who never, ever carried a sword? They didn’t. They did nothing. My brothers were forced to go through Ungoliant’s corruption and her spawns. They walked for hundreds of kilometers along Doriath’s frontier, wounded and starving and hunted and Doriath did nothing but _watch them die_.” The silver eyes bore into me in rage and shame and grief. “So when Celegorm urged us to attack and Curufin backed him, I remained silent. I gathered my men. I obeyed orders. And they I watched my brothers kill them like they watched Curufin and Celegorm and Celebrimbor suffer and die. I didn’t unsheathe my sword. I didn’t draw my bow. But I watched.”

“But one of them killed you, didn’t they?”

“I was trying to keep Curufin from bleeding to death when a dying doriathrim I had left for dead stabbed me. That was fair game, I suppose.”

“What is wrong with you? Do you still even care for anything other than you brothers?”

_Do you even care for yourself?_

“Who should I care for? You? If you are going to go away again, Glorfindel, do that now and stop harassing me.”

“I am harassing you?” I ask, flabbergasted. “Go fuck yourself, Caranthir.”

I stride out of the room, ignoring his angry shouts. Our fights always end like this. Caranthir would stick with his family no matter the amount of cruel words his father would deliver, no matter the pranks inflicted by Celegorm and the twins on others. Curufin could do whatever he wanted, his little freckled brother always took his side. Such behavior I could accept when we were children, but we are now talking about slaughter and murder; this is going too far and I am painfully reminded of far worse offenses that Caranthir tolerated.

I am tired of this. I am tired of our marriage always coming second. I am tired of running after someone whose only answers to problems are shouting and closing like an oyster. I ignore his shouts and retreat toward the dragonpit.

I’d rather sleep with Ecthelion.

The blue dragon is happy to see me back. I feel his nervousness radiating after the mess with Ancalagon. He curls around me in animal protectiveness, purring low and nudging me with his soft snout.

 _Glorfindel sad_ , he speaks through mind-speech.

“Yes. You are the only sane being here, Ecthelion.”

_Why Glorfindel is sad?_

“My mate is an idiot.”

_Mate problems are sad. No mate is very lonely. Not enough female dragons. Very lonely._

“My mate is not a female.”

_How do you make eggs?_

“We don’t.”

_Very sad._

I do not go back to Caranthir’s room, not the day after nor the one that follows. Sleeping with Ecthelion is not as uncomfortable as I thought, his warm body acting as both mattress and pillow, his soft, oddly pronounced words soothing me. Yet my new accommodations do not come without downsides, the most prominent being the smell. I don’t think I ever smelt as bad as I do now and my hair is so dirty that I cannot even braid them properly.

I will not go back to Caranthir. _I will not_. I am done with watching him pretend that all he does happens against his will.

At least, I was certain I would not go back until Maeglin showed up.

“You will go back to your husband,” he proclaims, quite firm now that we relocated from the dragonpit to a hallway. As brave as Maeglin can be, he is still shaking whenever he goes close to a dragon. “Then you will wait for Curufin’s orders.”

“I am done with Caranthir.”

Maeglin swears in a language I do not know.

“By the Valar Glorfindel, how did you ever manage to stop being superficial long enough to marry him? Do you even have something going on in that blond head of yours?”

“Why are you angry at me?”

“Why? Because you are a fucking idiot! What did you ever do but sit like a pretty bird singing with you friends? What did you ever do but follow lazily the first man than can claim kinship with you? As long as you could spend two hours in the morning to get your fancy braids done everything was alright, wasn’t it?” With a wide, sweeping gesture, he throws away all of my protests as unworthy before they even leave my mouth. “Curufin wants to _save his father_. What do you want, Glorfindel? To spend your days petting Ecthelion and just wait for the end of the war to happen?”

“That is not what I am doing.”

I want to resist. I want to do something. I am just… finding how is harder than following Turgon or the fëanorians. Maeglin waits for me to confirm that I am, indeed, doing something.

But there is nothing.

He is right. I am an empty fool.

“Fëanor is not an innocent maiden to be saved.”

Maeglin greets my answer with a bitter cackle.

“He is a child, Glorfindel. Ancalagon is a scared child, beaten and bound and starving. Whatever he did in his past life, he deserves saving.” The flow of his voice stills, an undercurrent of pain barely hidden struggling to surface. “This is driving Curufin mad. I don’t care what happened in Doriath, Glorfindel. We will be judged for our mistakes and the good we did once we leave. I cannot watch Curufin sink into his own mind. No one deserves what is happening to him. I am your liege, your legitimate lord now. You have the choice. Either you forsake Caranthir, Curufin and me with them, or you stick with us until the end.” He frowns, scrunching his nose in the process. “Whatever you chose, Glorfindel, please find some water and wash yourself. You are starting to look like an orc.”

Going back to your ex-husband with dignity is rather difficult when he is the one with the water supply and you smell like a pig. I, though, still try to pull that off and walk somewhat haughtily back to my rooms.

I try and, judging from Caranthir’s amused face when I come back, fail.

“Back from the trash bin?”

“Ha ha,” I say, not laughing at all. “I am not coming back to you.”

“I spent, what? A year with you at my side, on and off? The nice thing with our wedding, Glorfindel, is that I never have the time to get used to you.”

“I am not arguing with you. I agreed to help because Maeglin ordered me to, but you and I are finished.”

He makes a non-committed sound at the back of his throat, a small smile playing on his lips.

 _I am not coming back. Not after Doriath_. I keep repeating this during the next weeks. _I am not coming back. I am not coming back._

I thought I would have to fight Caranthir, but he feigns to ignore me. He does not, though, give me the pleasure of leaving me truly alone. Now that we aren’t together anymore, he takes great delight in sleeping naked, sprawled with alluring abandon right into my line of sight (but then, we cannot even walk in here without bumping into each other). When he washes himself with sand and oil, he does so with slow gestures, grooming himself over and over until, surely, there is nothing left to scrub; but even then he stretches his arms, his powerful muscles shining with oil, the grace of a big cat purring under the skin. And when he dedicates some water for his hair! How careful his fingers, combing through the dark threads, pulling like a lover’s hand, the wet, slightly reddish ribbons sticking to his back, water dripping between his cheeks…

 _I am not coming back_.

I feel his amusement. He brushes against me when he leaves our room, pretending that the touches are nothing to him; yet he unbraids his hair with a studied pose, as if untying a knock requires him throwing his head back, neck arced as if…

 _I am not coming back._ This is a matter of pride. I will not concede defeat; I am stronger than Caranthir’s cheap tactics of intimidation. The mind controls the body. Caranthir’s antics will have no effect on me because I am nowhere as empty and superficial as Maeglin claims I am.

 Every time my treacherous body threatens to send me crawling back to Caranthir, I just have to summon Ancalagon’s sad face to deflate whatever desire was there. While the young dragon looks better with more flesh on his bones and fewer wounds, he has been apathetic lately, consenting to move only to be fed by Morgoth or to be led left or right like a depressed dog. Even the dark lord is rather put off by the lack of feistiness and soon stops visiting him, delegating the feeding to his Balrogs.

***

Morgoth’s disinterest finally gives me the opportunity to approach Ancalagon.

I hope to teach him how to speak. It has been decided that we would leave Angband as soon as we could get Ancalagon out, at the condition that we would be able to handle him. Curufin claims that the last part poses no problem, while Maeglin and I insist that we cannot rely only on him: Ancalagon must be able to communicate or at least, to understand common elvish, in order to be able to communicate with other elves should we get separated. Caranthir is oddly neutral and I suspect that he has another agenda going on; our estrangement, though, means that he doesn't tell me as much as he used to.

“What if Curufin decides to free Ancalagon without us?” I ask Maeglin, who looks too confident to my tastes.

“He won’t. Tar-Mairon has drawn plans for Ancalagon’s last den. My father and I will build the door. I am quite sure Fëanor himself wouldn’t have been able to break it open without our consent.”

“I wouldn’t try such bet with a Fëanorian.”

Maeglin smiles.

“We all have our little secrets. Trust me, Curufin will not do anything with that door until Ancalagon can confirm verbally that he is not going to burn what remains of our people.”

And so I go to him.

The black dragon eyes me with disinterest as I approach. He is not hostile, but then, Ancalagon is more sullen than aggressive nowadays; he feigns to ignore me.

“Hum, hello. My name is Glorfindel. Do you understand?”

A huge silver eye sets itself on me. The jaws remain firmly closed.

“Do you mind if I sit there?” I do, and he doesn’t burn me, so I guess he doesn’t. I am not exactly close (I remember well my last encounter with his fire), but near enough not to have to raise my voice too much. “You look nice today.”

Still no reaction.

“I am sorry, I know this is stupid small talk, but what I am supposed to say to you? I can’t even tell you about my days, you can watch me most of the time. Just answer if you can, alright?”

No answer.

“What is your favorite color?”

Nothing.

“Favorite kind of meat?”

Silence.

I keep asking and speaking until Ecthelion calls me back. My mission is an utter failure: Ancalagon noted that I was there without reacting to anything I said, and while no one dragged me back to torture me, I cannot exactly ask him if he remembers Curufin.

Still I continue my mission. I have nothing else to do to further our goals anyway; I end up speaking nonsense to a stupid dragon for hours every day under the Balrogs supervision, each and every one of them finding me hilarious as I do so. At least they suspect nothing but some craziness on my part: Balrogs aren’t the brightest and are just a bit less stupid that orcs.

I start to question my own intelligence after Ancalagon starts to growl and cackle in my presence, because it takes me three days to understand that his chat isn’t some random animalistic nonsense. He starts “speaking” with clacking, bird-like sounds, quite unlike my speech, but for the intonation, as if he was reproducing a song rather than my words. If I make my voice deeper, he soon hums deeper; if I go higher at the end of a sentence, he does the same.

He does not, however, react to the meaning. If I tell him that I love him in a threatening manner, or that I will hurt him while speaking softly, he reacts to the tone, never to the words. Our conversations start with Ancalagon copying me until he tires of this game and starts to growl menacingly, as if he was annoyed at my inability to understand his speech.

After several months with no discernible progresses, I worry that we will have to unleash Ancalagon without any safety net but Curufin; Curufin, whose sanity is not entirely sure.

But for that, we still have to wait for Ancalagon to be moved closer to the surface.

***

 

As a caretaker in the dragonpit, I witness two of the most beautifully heart wrenching events of these miserable decades.

The first is set twenty years after my arrival. By then, Ancalagon has grown too much to be kept in the dragonpit anymore: should he grow further, getting him out of Angband and to the sky will require so much work that he would never make it. The black dragon is relocated to a great cavern closer to the surface that has been closed by a gigantic iron door of Maeglin’s making, a sorry parody of the great Gate of Steel wrought by him in Gondolin, and so heavy it requires a mechanism designed by Caranthir to be opened. A great key of galvorn closes the lock, always hanging from Morgoth’s neck in his throne room as an eternal reminder of Ancalagon’s servitude.

Each of Ancalagon’s wing is now a long as Olwë’s royal swanship and wide as its sails. A horse could have entered his mouth and walked straight down his throat; each teeth is big as a man, each growl as powerful as an approaching storm.

Ancalagon has grown fey lately. Morgoth’s brutality, the dumbness of his everyday life is slowly plucking intelligence from his silver eyes. There is less of an elf now and more of an animal, a caged bird of prey with clipped wings.

And yet, when the sun rises for the first time after Ancalagon’s relocation, when the cracks in the rock let a single ray of light in, the black dragons rises from his pathetic sleep; his neck arcing high, he seeks this cleft, no bigger than my arm and thus a mere needle to him, bringing his shining eyes close to the light.

With a start, I remember that Fëanor never saw the Sun.

The voice seeping from his throat sings like a nightingale, high and clear and full of melancholy. A song for Light from one who loved it too much and, at the same time, a song for Light from one who knew only darkness. I listen to Ancalagon’s song, so deserving of the tears threatening to overflow.

Fëanor never saw the Sun, and all he gets is a single sunray.

The next morning, Morgoth orders the crack filled with mortar.

***

 Time tickles slowly in Angband. Each day drags like a burden, bland and hard, until all blends together and years fly without anyone noticing, while we plan for nothing, for Ancalagon is in no state to be released: ever since he lost the Sun, he has been alternatively impossible to rouse or murderous.

I guess a few years have gone by since Ancalagon discovered light and broke his claws trying to retrieve his single sunray in vain.

The great dragon sleeps like the dead. He is undergoing the shedding of his skin and does nothing but sleep for days, not even bothering to wake to feed. I like these times. Ecthelion is nice but tiring like a child: the shedding’s season is like having a holiday made of boredom instead of being overworked. At least I can spend my days doing nothing, well away from the sight of Caranthir’s naked form, pretending to watch sleeping dragons in the unlikely case that something would happen.

I cannot say whether this is morning or evening. Such words have no meaning there. The gongs ring, but the first hour is just that, the first hour, and we do not care anymore for the Sun or the Moon. I do not know if those are even visible anymore through Morgoth’s polluted clouds. I know this is winter for Ancalagon’s cavern has grown cold and the great Iron Door must be cleared of snow and ice.

Winter is calmer in Angband. Morgoth is less visible, almost sleepy, his cruelty receding toward absentia. I begin to see winter as _his_ shedding season, a moment dedicated to replenishing his strengths while his enemies are trapped by frost and hail. Ancalagon’s cavern sucks in silence.

Until Ancalagon, quite unexpectedly, wakes from his sleep.

Too soon; he raises, breaking the dry remnant of his former skin, sending scales flying everywhere. He claws upward until the chains restrain him down, fighting and loosing until exhaustion forces him back to the ground. He shivers on the nest of his dead skin, trembling with sickness.

His song, then, is not the beautiful hopeful bird-like melody sung for the Sun. It is a keening of loss. It rings with uncomprehending agony. Why is this happening to me? Why is this sadness clawing at me? Why am I yearning so desperately to fly away? Toward what lands unknown to me?

When I go back this evening, Caranthir tells me the twins, his baby brothers, are dead.

Ancalagon’s lament still ringing inside my ears, I cup my husband’s cheeks in my shaking hands. I wish I could sing back his father’s tune, but no elven’s throat could birth such sounds. There is, to Ancalagon, a monstrousness, and strength of nature that produces music like a hurricane.

And so I kiss my husband, caress his face and take him slowly for the first time in years. I let our spirits touch and merge until I can give him the memory of Ancalagon’s song. I clasp my arms around his rock-hard shoulders, now trembling with sobs and despair and grief, and hold him, hold him until this wretched, endless night finally collapses on us.

I witness Ancalagon drown; Caranthir and Maeglin watche Curufin sink with him. They feign to ignore the moments of absence, the nightmares, the obsessional behaviors and bouts of melancholy. We do not talk about Doriath. We do not talk much, really, and I wonder if Angband is not eroding us as well.

I become obsessed with my hair. I do not care if this is superficial or dumb, not anymore: I will not let myself slid back to bad hygiene and loss of self-worth. Each complicated braid is an achievement. Each time I secure oils or soap or extra water, I treasure them as I used to treasure the golden ornaments of Valinor, to the point of weeping when Caranthir offers me a whole set made of copper stolen from the forge, engraved with flowers, exquisite despite the material.

I remember the first set I got from Caranthir.

I am the son of one Indis's handmaiden. My mother Olotië married one of Finwë's oldest friends, though he was humble and not much interested in politics. My mother was the driving force at court, tall, pristine, wrapped in the white garments of the vanyar. She was proud of her noble origin, proud to be born amongst her people, an herald of vanyarin culture and aloofness in the midst of the passionate, crafty noldor.

Olotië designed clothes. She was a part-time embroideress and seamstress and led the fashion at court. Because her style displaced the older looks favored by Miriel, High Prince Fëanaro thought she deserved a special kind of hate. They would look at each other as if a bad smell floated around their opponent.

“The High Prince,” Olotië said, “sees enemies all around him, and so he creates them. He is the kind of elf who will seek every flaw and demand every bit of your attention. You are either with him or against him – but if you ally with him, you will have to follow him in all things until he destroys all that you were. Always protect yourself, Laurëfindil, and do not associate with his kind of fanatics.”

I believed my mother. Nana was wise, beautiful and favored by the queen; she was kind in private, while Fëanaro was, too me, a menacing stranger. I grew up during the strife. Fëanaro's hostility was a very real factor in my youth: I was, indeed, barely an adult when he was banned. Violence, I thought, entered our life through him.

My cousin Elenwë was living with us at the time. Her own mother had been an handmaiden as well, though she returned to Ingwë's court in later years. Prince Turukano – Turgon, my later king – met Elenwë there. He was gifted in architecture: he saw her for the first time standing under a great panel of painted-glass in Ingwë's palace, bathed in the many colors of the rainbow crashing around her. She descended from the mountain, a shy girl to be courted by her scholar prince.

I had lived at court in Tirion all my life, and so it fell to me to tutor her first steps in the Palace of the Star. Suddenly I was invited everywhere, to every single begetting's day. Finwë sought to heal the rift by forcing his family together, thus transforming the year into a marathon of parties, festivals and feasts that ended more often than not with family members quarrelling. Fëanor and Fingolfin were a cold war of every instant, eyeing each other suspiciously; Fingon trailed behind Maedhros at all time, even if that meant breaking into a circle of highly exclusive fëanorian. Celegorm and Aredhel escaped to the gardens through every overture available, more often than not followed by Angrod and Aegnor. Caranthir I noticed only when he erupted in angry fits or got into a fight that could degenerate into shouting matches between Fëanor and his brother Arfin.

Elenwë and Turgon married at spring. The feast of Vana was an occasion for flowers and spring, a time of youth favored for the weddings of young couples. She was crowned with pink flowers, he with fingolfinian blue. Turgon favored vanyarin, simple elegant lines at this time. Fingolfin, in my opinion, was outrageously overdressed, his smile beaming with (for once) quite open joy: Turgon was the first of his child to marry. Elenwë later told me Fingolfin had been hoping for many grand-children to sate his loneliness, for all his children had now left his home and his own marriage was crumbling.

Turgon was the first of Finwë's grandsons to marry. The King organized extravagant festivities, including a ball. My mother dreamt of me winning the hand of a noble princess. For that purpose I had donned the clothes of a prince: brocade of red and white and gold, embroidered with flowers and birds, my hair woven with ribbons. I danced with so many girls that their faces started to dissolve into the vanyarin wine. At some point late into the evening, I retreated to the gardens to wait for the drunkenness to evaporate.

And here was Caranthir; I cannot recall how he came to me. In my memories I am alone until he is here, standing in front of me and my cold stone bench, his hands outstretched toward me, a small package wrapped with red fabric clutched into them.

“Is this for Elenwë?” I asked, thinking that perhaps, he forgot to give his gift to the bride during the feast.

“No. This is for you.”

“Why?” I laughed then, too drunk and surprised to answer with anything else than a question. “It’s not my wedding.”

“Because I want to.”

“Why?”

My Moryo was a shy young elf. His height helped to forget that he was hardly more than a teenager. He looked pointedly at the tip of his boots and didn’t answer. The package ended up in my hands and Caranthir gone from my side. I unwrapped the fabric to find a gorgeous headdress of white gold and amber. The style was fëanorian, and yet clearly not _from_ Fëanor. I wondered how Caranthir could afford this and why he would give it to a boy he never talked to before.

I didn’t wear the headdress for months afterwards. I pretended my mother wouldn’t approve of me wearing something from a concurrent trend, but deep down I was troubled. Caranthir had passed his examination to become a master craftsman mere days before Elenwë’s wedding with the piece that now slept in one of my jewel boxes. I couldn’t understand why he would part from it. He acted as if nothing happened; as his priceless chef d’oeuvre wasn’t in my possession.

Curufin’s betrothal to Aicahendë of the Silver Tree was hastily announced by Fëanor, mere weeks after Turgon’s wedding, launching a furious campaign of whispers about how the High Prince sook to eclipse his half-brother by rushing his son’s wedding. Aicahendë wasn’t a girl of the court, though her mother was the highly connected daughter of Finwë’s Gardian of the Seal. She was a glass-blower, fëanorian to the bone, daughter of a silver-smith from Alqualondë that had lived by Fëanor’s side for so long that they could have been brothers.

The match, my mother whispered, was the proof that the High Prince was slowly loosing his grip over the court.

“Aicahendë brings no useful alliance. Telperimpar and Capindë are loyalists: their efforts were already all for him. Fëanaro is turning toward his followers because the whole world sees him as he is. Finally! An angry, egoistical, petty child.”

My mother, by then, hated Fëanor with all the love she felt for Indis and her children, with all the pain brought by the fëanorians’ open disdain for her vanyarin identity. Olotië felt dragged in the mud and was determined to bring them down with her. But this was a fëanorian wedding and I decided to wear Caranthir’s headdress.

Aicahendë and Curufin looked happy enough to wed each other. She was a noldo in full despite her father being a Teler by blood: tall, with ink black hair and piercing eyes, a wide mouth with wild smiles and hands slightly burnt from her craft. The High Princess Nerdanel did not look so happy to stand by Fëanor; they weren’t separated yet, but her husband’s radical religious stances did not fit well with her family. They were still a couple, ableit one that struggled not to clash on the political scene. Fëanor himself was friendlier with Curufin’s father-in-law than with his own wife.

All of this I saw from my chair, quite far away from the whole affair, seated by my mother. Olotië looked bored. I, as always, spied every toilette and new hairstyle, until the groom and his bride walked the alley, Aicahendë’s small family following her, dwarfed by Curufin’s cortege of brothers. I admit that I cannot recall how Curufin dressed for his wedding, nor the details of Aicahendë’s dress, but I do recall very clearly Caranthir’s clothes. He hadn’t been allowed to wear black for his brother’s union and so came in a deep red that clashed rather unfavorably with his red cheeks. He was nervous, almost overwhelmed by the amounts of people watching his family for every misstep.

Then he saw me, and his headdress in my hair, and he _smiled_.

And so I did the first thing that passed through my empty head and waved back like a silly child until my mother stepped on my foot and told me to behave.

I was half drunk (again) when Caranthir somehow appears in my memory. The beginning of our conversation is missing and my hands are fumbling into my hair.

“Of course I love it! But it is so pretty, I needed a very special occasion to wear it! It is the prettiest thing anyone ever gave me!”

Somehow my hands are in his, and he is both smiling and fully red in the face; but I do not care, because his smile his beautiful and his single dimple shows.

“I am sorry, I am really talking too much, am I? I am not very bright. I mean my hair is brighter than I am, probably.”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Because this is true! I am dumb! But it is alright, because I am pretty and isn’t it great to be at least very good at at least one thing? I am very good at being pretty, that and I won the sparing contest last summer, so I guess that I am good at _two_ things already!”

I remember him laughing, whether it was at my self-deprecating tirade or at another dumb joke. I remember us kissing, his arms shy around my waist, my hands fluttering on his shoulders like butterflies.

We saw each other in secret, two young, fumbling teenagers discovering the embarrassing premises of sex, blushing and hiding in closets. Caranthir made other pieces of jewelry for me; I would wear them, feeling like my fingers were adorned with secrets understood only by us.

“You always knew, didn’t you?” I ask Ancalagon, one day. He doesn’t answer, and he probably never will because he lacks even the ability to understand our language, much like a dog will recognize a command but not _know_ words and sentences. “You must have seen Caranthir’s chef d’oeuvre, or caught him using your forge every time he offered me something. You would have recognized the headdress anywhere, and why would Caranthir give it to me but for love?”

The great beast remains silent, dozing like a bored lizard. I am, really, talking to myself. My adult mind tells me that many must have known. My father, who was kind and warm, knew I was in love. My mother had the cleverness of an owl; perhaps she knew I was seeing a fëanorian. And Fëanor himself – he must have known everything, and yet said nothing.

Now, I wonder: what if I had followed to Formenos? If Fëanor already knew but never stopped us, could I have followed my husband north? I touch lightly the copper baubles in my hair. I cannot change the past and shy, blushing Moryo is gone. Silly, dumb and happy Lauryo is gone.

They were replaced by stronger, colder, more tarnished versions, soiled by massacres and Angband.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. High King Finwë Arafinwë

The new rumor in town is that Luthien’s Silmaril appeared in the sky.

The new “star” may have been hovering for months or even years: the news come from far away, for the sky above Angband is devoid of all light but the occasional sunray. Even those, though, became non-existent of late. One would have to go as far as Doriath for the acrid fumes to disperse enough to glimpse the stars. I imagine the rumor came from thralls or even orcs occupying the southern provinces of Beleriand.

From them, Caranthir and I receive confirmation that Maedhros and Maglor are still there somewhere, holding the lands around Amon Ereb through some fey magic and an alliance with the wood elves. Some wild orcish tales circulated about the Red Flame of the South and his nightmarish Singer, most of them horrific, as if the last free fëanorians were orcs themselves rather than elves.

The most unexpected effect is that Curufin suddenly wins the status of improvised prophet.

“I dream of a sea of clouds. Endless waves of white painted by Arien and Tillion’s travels. The air feels so _clean_ up there.” A possessed glint shines in his light grey eyes, the hint of madness settling inside his brain. I am dismayed by the number of desperate thralls seeking to sate their hopelessness with Curufin’s deliriums. “And I see the stars. I see them with a clarity that no elven eyes can achieve. I see them through the silima of My skin; I feel their light resonating through Me. The Sickle of the Valar is poised for the fight. The Eagles ride on the great wings on Manwë. We will be saved. _The West is coming._ ”

“You must restrain him,” Maeglin pleads to Caranthir. “My father tolerates him because Curufin’s morbid thoughts finally halted, but this is getting out of control. Eöl doesn’t react well to fear. If Mairon hears of this, you can be sure he will throw Curufin under the carriage.”

“And just how am I supposed to do this?” Caranthir growls. His hostility merely serves as a façade to his own inability to curbs his brother’s preaching. “Curufin never listened to me. He is not going to start now that he loosing it.”

And _loose it_ he does. As the months trickle by, as the armies of the West land at the mouths of Sirion and start to push northward, what remained of Curufin’s sanity crumbles. Eöl banishes him from the forge after he lets an almost finished blade melt, having simply forgotten that it was here; his talks are that of a madman. He pretends he knows a Lady-Bird who lives at the top of a tower and describes her in great details. He wakes at night, trembling and babbling as if his sense of language had gone with Ancalagon's. He tries, once, to escape Eöl's and Maeglin's supervision to go to his father.

“I just wanted to see him.”

“You can lie to my father, but not to me,” Maeglin chides him after I bring him back. “Why would you take your tools if it was only to see him? We are very lucky that Glorfindel found you!”

But the glare I get from Curufin is one of pure hate.

“He is _suffering_.”

“Curufin. Stop.” Maeglin takes his hand. Nowadays, getting Curufin's full attention often requires active touching. “We talked about this. We cannot free Ancalagon. He is too dangerous. We have to wait to bring him to the Valar and hope they can cure him.”

 _And cure you as well_.

My prince finally manages to convince Curufin to take the sleeping draught. We wait for him to slumber with worried impatience.

“How goes the scouting?” Maeglin asks once we are sure his uncle is asleep.

“Well and not well. Ecthelion is very enthusiastic.” All the dragons but Ancalagon himself have been freed, ravaging the lands around Angband, training their wings and finally hunting for themselves. “But he still has a lot of troubles explaining. He knows where his home is and that's it. My map is progressing at a snail's pace. I am almost sure that Finarfin's army hasn't reached Himring yet.”

The Noldor at Himring is the moment we will try to make contact with them. It should actually be very easy: ever since the dragonpit has been opened,  I could have escaped Angband with Ecthelion at any moment. I remained there only because I am the only one who has access to Ancalagon.

I am itching to leave. Caranthir and I may be on better terms, and I may be more or less used to Angband by now, freedom is hanging right in from of my nose. I feel childish excitement at the idea of riding a _dragon_ on my way out. Caranthir is making a harness with stolen leather and buckles and grim determination.

“I will come back with Finarfin's answer, of course,” I tell him. If I am fast enough, my absence may not even be noted: Angband is growing more and more chaotic, discipline is crumbling, and the dragonpit is even worse, with dragons coming out and in at all times.

“I'd rather you don't come back at all,” Caranthir mumbles. “If Finarfin refuses, don't bother.”

 

***

 

I leave Angband on a chilly morning at the beginning of spring, strapped so tightly to Ecthelion that my blood almost stops to run and looking like some kind of savage in furs. Yet, I am more enthusiastic than ever. I am going to fly! I am escaping!

Ecthelion's strides on the ground are softer than a horse's. His long body flows and curves through the hallways until he reaches an opening on the Thangorodrim's flank. The sky is black with fumes, the air acrid and cold. We are immediately caught by a strong wind, as if Manwë himself was seeking to claw at his brother's den.

I feel Ecthelion gather strength into his back legs and grab the harness tighter. The speed of his take-off is enough to knock the wind out my lungs; this is nothing like riding a horse. Nothing like anything I ever experienced. The wind blinds me. The air bit me through the furs.

But I am flying.

I howl with joy. Free! I am free! Ecthelion roar in answer. We are going south, flying over the dirty mix of half-melt snow and sooth that is the plain under Angband's doors. Now and then I spot parties of orcs erupting from the numerous cracks and streaming to the front, each of them a new dent to Morgoth's power. The landscape rolls under us with impossible speed. How many kilometers do we fly over in a minute?

I can suddenly imagine what destruction the dragons can bring. Ecthelion wouldn't have attacked elves or humans, but what of Rog? What of the others? I can imagine them striking, burning and slaughtering whole camps before a speedy retreat to the safety of the dragonpit.

We turn to the east, still flying under the darkness of Morgoth's clouds. I am appalled at the state of the lands: grass blackened, huge expenses of swamps where Maglor's Marches used to be, green and rich with horses. Now, there is nothing but a sodden plain filled with orcs and slaves, trudging like ants toward their fate.

The clouds do not lift.

I start having troubles telling the hour. Night and day would be the same with such cover above our heads. I doze and wake, my nose frozen by the wind. The plains have changed into hills; they look like solid waves, barren and cold, until a line of little lights marks what I guess should be the front: the posts of the guards of Finarfin's vanguard.

I fly over them. I need to reach Finarfin himself, to show Ecthelion to him and prove that my friend can be a valuable ally. Nervousness starts to creep into my chest. I have never been a great diplomat and Finarfin carries Finwë's crown; he isn't Turgon, whom I have known from childhood, or even Fingolfin, who invited me to his home after Elenwë's marriage. Finarfin is one I hardly know about. I cannot think of one conversation we may have shared at court.

We fly over hundreds of fires; fires spreading to the horizon, almost as many as Fingolfin's whole host before the Ice.

I eventually decides to risk descending. We may already have been spotted anyway: the Noldor, used to the Light of Valinor, would not have seen a dark blue dragon flying so high, but the Silvan's eyes are notably sharper in the dark.

We almost crash in the middle of a circle of tents full of dozing soldiers. I hardly have the time to shout that I am a friend: arrows are already notched, spears pointed toward Ecthelion. The blue dragon whines, unsure of whether he should look more threatening or submit.

“We are friends! I am Glorfindel of Gondolin, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower! I seek the High King Finarfin!” It strikes me that in this army from Valinor, sindarin may not be well understood and repeat myself in quenya. Whispers spread through the soldiers; I see some of them depart, but overall they remain on guard and menacing.

I wait for what seems like a very long time, trying to soothe a very nervous Ecthelion, flashing smiles and asking for news of home without receiving much answers until a bunch of warriors in very shinny armors makes his way toward us.

I struggle to recognize the elf standing in their midst. Tall and lithe, High King Finwë Arafinwë is resplendent in his armor of mithril and gold, hair the shade of the sun tied into a complicated but secure vanyarin knot. His cloak barely floats behind him, heavy with the embroideries of his House; on his head is an exact replica of Finwë's crown of old, though it cannot be the same one: Fëanor brought the original to Middle Earth; it was lost, I was told, when the High King Finwë Nelyafinwë was captured.

Finarfin and his guards stop at a reasonable distance. I know Ecthelion could still kill them in a second, but I decide to give them proper warning about dragon fire once my friend will be accepted.

I slide down the blue scales, hitting the ground with all the grace my frozen legs can muster, which is very little. I can hardly feel them anymore and end up kneeling like some clumsy child. I am told to advance, hands up, and do so immediately.

Finarfin's quenya sounds odd to my hears; foreign and old fashioned, as if the language hasn't changed at all in Valinor. A figure almost as tall as he is steps forward, a woman with hair as golden as the King's.

As golden as mine.

“Mother,” I breathe. “What are you doing here?”

The sight of the ever pristine Olotië standing in the muddy hills of Himring is... unexpected.

“Laurëfindil,” she advances, her hands seeking my face. Her fingers map my cheeks, my brow, my lips, as if she needed to rediscover all of me to be sure that I am really there. “This is you. This is really you.”

“Yes, Nana!” I take her into my arms, sudden and uncaring about her clothes. Five hundred years. Five hundred years without her!

How I missed her!

She gently pushes me away. The gleam of tears, on such a usually reserved face startles me.

“Arafinwë called me to ensure that you were who you claim you are. But,” she claims, higher, so that each and every one can hear her, “a mother's heart cannot lie. This is my son! This is Laurëfindil of the Golden Flower, who left following Prince Turukano across the sea.”

She leads me toward Finarfin. I kneel awkwardly; he is not my king, no truly, and the people around him are strangers to me.

“Your Majesty,” I say, trying to switch back to valinorean rather than to Gondolin's mixed quenya. “I have come seeking your help, to plead for friends in need and offer an alliance.”

Finarfin's stare goes behind me. I do not have to look to guess that he observes Ecthelion carefully.

“This is Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain, who served King Turukano until he fell in Gondolin. He does not remember his former life, but his heart recognizes his friends. He is true to our cause and poses no threat to you or your army.”

“Is that so?” Finarfin asks. There is a coldness in his voice that sounds odd. He used to be a poet, a man of soft words and understanding. There is, now, something like stone in his throat, something that sounds more like Finwë than the Arafinwë of old. “Many wounds have been inflicted on us by such beasts.”

“But not by Ecthelion, I am sure!”

“Perhaps not. They leave very few to describe them when they descend to strike us.”

 _I can burn you if I want_ , Ecthelion suddenly broadcasts, his mind-voice ringing strong through the head of every elf assembled. I hear bowstrings tense. _But I don't. I do not want to eat you. I am friend._

Finarfin eyes him suspiciously for a time, until he gestures the soldiers to lower their weapons.

“Bring something to eat to the Lord of the Golden Flower. He is kin, after all.”

***

I am led to a tent nearby, open so I can watch over Ecthelion. The soldiers are sent away and a table is settled for the King.

I almost cry at the sight of properly cooked chicken.

“Tell me what you want,” Finarfin orders without preamble. I have to remember to clear my mouth before I answer him.

“I come from Angband to offer my help and Ecthelion's, as well as news of your kin.”

“My kin?” Finarfin asks coldly. “What kin?” _And why should I care about them?_

“Morifinwë Fëanorion, whom they now call Caranthir...”

“What of him? He died in Doriath, slaughtering more of _my_ kin.”

It is true that Thingol's family was connected to Finarfin through marriage, but I didn't expect him to be so bitter about them; it's not as if he knew any of them.

“Caranthir is alive. So are your nephew Curufin and your grand-nephew Maeglin. They are currently...”

“Two kinslayers and a traitor.”

“There is also your brother...”

“Which one?”

“Fëanaro.”

“Is that all?”

“Well I... yes.”

“Two kinslayers, a traitor and the madman who destroyed our whole civilization. I want none of their help. You see, I have some moral standards. The High King of the Noldor does not associate with criminals.” His stare grows hard. “I refused Maedhros and Maglor's help already. I will not sully my hands with any of their kin.”

“Fëanaro is your brother...”

“Half-brother in blood but no brother at heart,” Finarfin retorts. “I would accept you and Ecthelion, but I will extend no hand to them.”

“Caranthir is my husband,” the words stumble from my lips. I have been sent here to save those people; those people I used to despise, those people I didn't know. How can Finarfin just throw them away like trash? He wasn't there! He wasn't there when Gondolin burnt! He wasn't there when Maeglin was taken and tortured!

How dares he judge them, when all he did was stay behind?

“I am married to Fëanor's son,” I repeat. My mother doesn't look surprised. _So, she knew_. “And I pledged myself to Prince Maeglin of Gondolin. I came here seeking your help and I will ask even if you do not want to listen.”

“I am not interested.”

“Aren't you? Perhaps you will be when I'll tell you what will happen. What will happen is that the dragons you saw are nothing. Ecthelion is just a gentle cute puppy compared to what is coming your way. His name is Ancalagon and he will burn _all of you_ to ashes if you refuse to hear me.”

Finarfin eyes me in silence.

“Morgoth has been using the souls of elves to make his beasts. He used Fëanor's soul to make his greatest dragon – and trust me, he did achieve something. Ancalagon's wings could cover Finwë's palace from the kitchen to the stables. His fire burnt Morgoth himself. If Morgoth unleashes and controls him, your whole army is _dead_. What Caranthir offers you is an opportunity to turn Ancalagon against Morgoth. This could be the end of the war.”

I wait for an answer that doesn't come. Finarfin watches me, pensive, trying to decipher my thoughts.

“What,” he finally says, “do you offer, exactly?”

“Ancalagon. We offer Ancalagon, but the Valar need to know who he is and what happened to him. We can control him, barely, but he is very volatile and will attack if he feels threatened. We will bring him to them and they will help him. He will surrender – if they treat him with gentleness.”

“The Valar are not here. I will need time to inform them.” To my astonished face, he explains: “The last war between Morgoth and the Valar destroyed too much of this world. The Powers could have attacked Angband on their own, by they doubted any prisoners would have survived and feared to destroy Middle Earth. This is why we are there, walking and dying and doing what they could do. Though in the end, our efforts will be meaningless.” A sad smile dances on his lips. “Morgoth's corrumption runs too deep. The Silvans are leaving already. They say Beleriand is dead and lost.”

 _And we have done all of this for nothing_.

It's almost as if the thought had escaped, so strong it rings in the tent. Fourty years of bloody, slow war to take back Beleriand inch by inch, to slaughter orcs again and again and again without seeing Morgoth waver. But I have seen him waver; I have seen him diminish, little by little, each time he sends new orcs forwards. Finarfin may think his efforts worthless, but the blades and blood of his soldiers are wounding his foe more surely than Fëanor's fire and Fingolfin's courage ever did.

“Is that all you need? A safe passage for Ancalagon to the Valar?”

“No. I want my husband to be safe. The Valar will help him fulfill his Oath and then, they will judge him fairly for what he did.”

“I cannot make promises. Only Eonwë can give you such guarantees.”

“I want Maeglin to be pardoned.”

Silence.

“What happened wasn't his fault.”

“This is not what I heard. His treachery is known to all.”

“He was _tortured_.”

“Torture doesn't excuse anything. Maedhros was tortured as well and that will bring him no pardon.”

I gape, flabbergasted.

“How can you even _compare_ them? Maedhros took part in three kinslayings without being under the influence of Morgoth. He is wholly responsible for his actions. Maeglin was tortured into giving Gondolin's location and coerced into keeping silent.”

“He sold Gondolin so he could marry his cousin against her will. Obviously, you do not know the whole story.”

“Well neither do you, your majesty. You have never been to Angband and you have never been tortured. I haven't been tortured either but at least I know how they do it. Maeglin deserves your help, not your scorn.”

He eyes with with cold calculation.

“I will talk to Eonwë," he finally says. "I will tell him of your offer, but do not expect me to defend any of your acolytes.”

 


	8. The long walk down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a Sultry in September fic and I already missed the deadline, this chapter has not be beta-ed (I am kinda rushing to finish at least for October), so here be mistakes! I hope you will enjoy the read anyway :)

I wait for two days for Eonwë's answer to come, each minute feeling like my chances of going back unnoticed grow slimmer and slimmer. Ecthelion, on the contrary, is quickly adopted by some of the most adventurous soldiers; he wins their love after he manages to warm a whole pond by immerging in it, allowing for the first warm bath in years.

 _I had a cow!_ he tells me with delight. _It was very good! I love cows!_

I laugh and don't tell him that he used to eat no meat at all; I can easily imagine the look of horror on his face.

***

I finally meet Eonwë, all clad in shiny radiance in an armor engraved with feathers, his white, pristine wings drinking the meager light descending from the moon. Morgoth's fumes have been retreating and, for the first time in forever, I can glimpse the aster behind the veil.

“I have decided to agree to your conditions,” Eonwë tells me as he motions me to raise. “Tell me of Ancalagon.”

I tell him of Curufin's intuitions, of the birth of Ancalagon and the way Morgoth has been treating him. I tell him of Ecthelion and Rog; of the others dragons who can speak, albeit crudely, while Ancalagon cannot even understand us.

“He has a love for Light,” I say, remembering the nightingale's song for the Sun. “There is no evil in him. He may yet be prevented from participating in this war.”

Eonwë's face is like a polished mask, placid and neutral; yet I feel a tremor of anger radiating from him, unseen but not unfelt: there is rage building in the Maia's soul.

“What has been done is a great evil. Once, the Valar pardoned Melkor on the ground that he didn't _know._ No such excuses will be allowed this time. What was inflicted to your friends is unforgivable and shall be redressed. Yet...”

I tense; here is the “but” I was expecting. I am hopeful and have more faith in the Valar than most, but I know better than to expect unblemished optimism.

“High King Arafinwë fears Ancalagon may turn on us. Hundreds, if not thousands will die should you lose control of him.”

“It is a very real possibility,” I admit, “but if Ancalagon is not rescued, then he will be used against your armies. We have a choice between _may_ and _will_. We know our plan is risky and hard to pull off, but Morgoth cannot be allowed to use such power unopposed.”

“What are you planning?”

“The keys to control Ancalagon, according to Caranthir, are threefold: the Silmarils, Curufin, and his own body. We know that Morgoth is able to control the body of his creatures to an extend: he demonstrated that with Curufin already; Curufin, however, has a very strong bond with the Silmarils. So does Fëanor, and Morgoth claimed that he killed him by will alone. Perhaps Morgoth can only control them because he controls the Silmarils.”

“We need the Silmarils before we free him, then.”

“Yes. This part is still muddy, but I know that Caranthir is planning to retrieve them.”

“He means to attack Morgoth himself?”

“Fingolfin did. Luthien did. Morgoth was stronger back then. We can do this.” I sound far more sure of myself than I really am. We did not really discuss this plan and I am not even sure Caranthir isn't planning to go behind my back and attack on his own. “We have to do this. As long as Morgoth owns the Silmarils, Ancalagon will have no peace.”

Eonwë remains silent, his soul still, listening.

“Is he? Weaker?” he asks, pensive. “I feel his power running into the ground. He is everywhere.”

“Perhaps, but in Angband he is _less_. This war is exhausting him. It could be his downfall.”

“It could be,” Eonwë allows, slow and sad. “What do you want from me?”

“We need the army to come closer. We need to be able to join you as soon as possible. I guess the best solution would be for Ancalagon not to move at all, but if it can't be helped, then we need to bring him to you.”

“On the slopes of the mountain, before the last assault. I will be with the vanguard. Bring Ancalagon to me. If you fail...”

“Then you will kill him.”

The Maia eye me, his face blank.

“I am not a fool, my lord, and neither are Caranthir and Maeglin. If Ancalagon cannot be controlled, then we cannot let him loose. His spirit, at least, will have been freed from Angband.”

 

***

The flight back fills me with dread.

The two days I spent at Finarfin's camp have opened my eyes. I have seen my mother, eaten proper food and remembered the taste of clean water. I have breathed fresh air walked under the stars. I have talked with former friends and strangers; for the first time in years, I am myself again.

And yet not. In my mother's mirror I cannot quite recognize my face, and when I talk to her, I can read on her face that she doesn't quite see the Laurëfindil of my youth either. I need all the courage I can muster to climb back on Ecthelion's back.

As we fly back to Angband, I know I could refuse to return and no one would blame me. Just a word, a single word and Ecthelion would turn and fly back south or east,  far from my sorry excuse for a marriage, far from Maeglin and Curufin. I could ask for a sword and an armor and fight on the ground.

But still I fly, back to the prison that hosted me for the last decades.

I weep when the slopes of Thangorodrim appears. The feeling of dread hits me like a wall; the despair, the unnatural erosion of the self. I notice the smell and the darkness and wonder: how far did I fall? For I took them for granted but a few days ago.

I gather my wits back before Ecthelion finds his den. He lands with gracefulness, my body tensed against his back. Now is the moment of truth. If anyone took note of my absence, I will know in less than an hour.

Ecthelion slips quickly back to his own cavern.  I slide down, my legs failing to support me; my fingers have gone rigid. I struggle to unbuckle his harness and get rid of my own clothes. Those I leave, bundled in a corner, more or less hidden behind a pile of bones.

The path down Ecthelion's home takes me to Ancalagon's own cavern. I feel like everyone is watching me, but then, I know that paranoia most probably taint my views. I try to walk as normally as I can...

“Look who's there,” a loud, rocky growls erupts behind me. I turn to find the Balrog Nardis crouched on a narrow platform.  “Sweet, gold haired Glorfindel. I was starting to miss you.”

The animalistic jaw opens as if to smile, showing to much teeth and driping with acidic saliva. _She knows_ , I immediately think.

I don't wait for her to pounce and fly.

She hits the wall right after I run into a narrow hallway. Her furious roars echoes after my steps. I hesitate, then turn left: the path is bringing me back to Ecthelion, for all the ways leading down to the forges are wide enough for Nardis to follow.

 _Glorfindel?_ My friend asks, puzzled to see me dash back into his den. I am on his back before I can muster enough breath to answer.

“Fly... go...”

I grab his horns with desperation, knowing we will not go far before he lands... or I fall.

“Where?” he asks, standing on the threshold of his cavern.  I refuse to go back to camp, not yet. I cannot let Caranthir assume that Eonwë refused us: his past proved time and time again that he would unleash the worst crimes for the sake of his family, and I find myself unable to trust him not to release Ancalagon before his time.  My gaze roam the slopes of the mountains. There must be other paths that could lead me to the forges. There must be!

“Little prey!”

The threat rings through the air; Nardis found a way out.

“I knew you would run _there_ ,” she snarls. “To your little pet!”

She moves with surprising speed. Balrogs cannot fly, but their wings can bring them a long way when they jump. I am almost thrown away when Ecthelion tries – and fail – to dodge the whip aimed his way. The tongue of fire embraces his back leg like a strangling vine. The blue dragon screams in pain, turns and breathe a full fan of fire on his opponent.

“Fire? I am fire!” she yells, untouched.

“Fly!” I urge Ecthelion. I am unarmed and he has avoided fights all his life. “FLY!”

My friend obeys with a new yelp of pain. The whip tenses, bits into his flesh, but finally the strength of Ecthelion's legs and wings yank the weapon from the Balrog's hands. Nardis jumps after us with a furious bark; too late: Ecthelion wings take us up, toward the summit of the Thangorodrim.

I remain attached to the dragon's neck with all my strength, watching my foe diminish, then disappear once Ecthelion circles to the other slope. I become painfully aware of the cold. My left leg stings with the burn of Ecthelion's fire.

We find a new entrance on the other side of the mountain. I am trembling from the cold and my wound, unable now to hope to go back to Himring: I would fall long before I even reach Eonwë's vanguard.

“Wait for me at the Iron Door,” I tell Ecthelion. “I will find you back there.”

My friend mewls pitifully. He is not used to be hurt and worried to see me go, but I have to push his nudging snout away. I hope that Nardis kept my absence to herself, or at least that Caranthir wasn't blamed for my escape.

I start my long hike down with a slight limp from my burnt leg. The hallways I go by first used to host orcs, judging by the smells, crude markings on the wall and the remains of personal effects. They are now empty, their residents having gone to the sodden plains. I almost feel pity for them, former elves with broken lives, and yet forced to abandon even them to be sacrificed to the grinding teeth of Valinor.

I walk for what seems like hours, trudging down, down, down, exhausted until I can barely think. I pass thralls with barely any meat on their arms and ask them for direction; some answers, but others open their mouth to cut tongues, when they are still sane enough to understand me at all.

I walk down, down, down the road that shows me how privileged I have been. I walk down a bunch of orcs cutting meat from the body of a woman, eating the flesh as soon as it leaves the bone. I walk down a group of slaves fighting for a bone that probably belong to one of their owns. I walk down hallways made of skulls and miners laboring mindlessly, digging galleries that will lead them nowhere with empty eyes.

I stumble back to the forge's neighborough and feel like I am back to civilization.

I find my alcove empty. My mattress calls me with the sweet song of sleep, but I cannot indulge and leave the place, limping toward Eöl's chambers. I know I shall find Curufin here. I hope he will be lucid enough to help me find Caranthir.

If they are still there.

I enter without knocking and find myself starring at the whole family.

“What is the meaning of this?” Eöl yells, wrath and fear on his face. “What are _you_ doing there?” Yet Maeglin pulls me inside, closing the door behind me. I sag against his shoulder, my leg hurting me more than ever. “Throw him out! Everyone knows he escaped!”

“He is hurt, father!”

“This is his problem, not ours!”

Curufin watches us absently; can he even see us?

“He brings words of the Valar! We are...”

“Of the Valar?” A broken laugh explodes from Eöl's lips. “Because you think the Valar are going to help us? You think anyone is going to help us?”

“The war will end soon,” I tell him. I wish I could sound hopeful, but I am dying on my feet. “It is a matter of weeks at most. Days, and we will be free.”

“Free? We will be slaves to them! I know how they are, son,” he goes to us, grabbing Maeglin's face in trembling hands that his son cannot evade, burdened as he is with my weight. “I thought I escaped once, but then _she_ came. She threw her power on us and bound the king to her will. And you? Did you not try to escape? Did you not imprison yourself in this cage called Gondolin? People like us, Maeglin, we will never be free. We will always be slaves to some power or another!”

“Better the Valar than this, father!”

“Better?” The cackles are blood chilling. “Do you think so? They will make you pay for what you did to Gondolin. Do not believe that because this idiot forgave you, others will. You are cur-”

Bloods ends his tirade; blood surging from his mouth, speckling my and Maeglin's face with red freckles. Curufin takes a step back, withdrawing the knife from his former master's back, a blank, lost look on his face.

“Aredhel.” He murmurs, not really seeing us. “You will not hurt Aredhel.”

But Aredhel is long dead, I mean to say; everything happens at once. A horrified scream leaves Maeglin's throat and strangles itself, the prince folding upon himself as if drained of strength, taking me to the ground with him. Curufin blinks. The knife slips from his hand, clattering loudly on the ground.

I watch, oddly detached, Maeglin cradle his father's body with body wrenching sobs. Eöl's lips move silently while his fingers seeks his son's, and I cannot know (again) if there is love or hate between them.

All I can think about is that without Eöl to shield them, Curufin and Maeglin are both going to die.

“Maeglin,” I call him, voice strong with authority. Curufin is trembling so hard, his face streaked with tears, than I cannot make any use of him. “Maeglin!” I grab his shoulder and turn him forcefully toward me. “When is your father supposed to go back to work?”

“One... less...”

“Maeglin, I _need_ you right now. When?”

“Half an hour.”

“How long until someone comes to see why he isn't there?”

“Two hours? I... I don't know, everything is so chaotic there. Perhaps no one will come.”

“What of Caranthir?” He looks at me, uncomprehending. “Is Caranthir alright or did they...”

“No. No, he's alright.”

“Go fetch him.”

“But –“

He looks pointedly at the blood covering his shirt. A sudden urge to laugh grows in my chest. After everything I have seen while limping down here, a little bit of blood looks fairly benign.

“I don't think anyone is going to even notice. Go!”

I am relieved to see him leave, though that leaves me with Eöl's dying body and a sobbing Curufin to deal with.

I kneel by Eöl, wondering if there is _something_ I should do instead of watching him drown in his own blood. His wound is deadly and a weezing sounds comes from his chest, followed by ugly gurgling. His trembling hand struggle with something around his collar. I slip my much nimbler fingers there and find a leather thong, a small key hanging at the end. I almost expect Eöl to fight for it, but his body relaxes with a painful sigh; his hand leaves his neck, pointing toward a door.

I take Curufin by the hand and drag him with me, having no wish to end up with a knife in my back should he suddenly see me as a threat. The door has no lock.

In find myself in a small chamber. I push Curufin toward the bed; he crumbles there, weeping in the sheets. There is only one locked cabinet in the room, with a lock dark and yet slightly shining, much like the strange key I hold into my hand. The device turns silently, the doors opening without a single creak.

And they open to reveal swords.

Not just any swords. On the middle shelf are two twin swords, one with its blade broken and the other in pristine state; both are black, yet shining strongly, and their metal seems to whisper when I run my finger on the blade. The broken one is unknown to be, but the other one I recognize: Anguirel, the sword of star-metal that used to adorn Maeglin's hips and his father's before him.

Anguirel sits at the place of honor, a queen of swords well accompanied, for on the top shelf is another marvel, wrought with mithril and silver and all the art of the Noldor: Ringil, the Cold Flame, the ultimate and sole companion brought by Fingolfin on his last ride to war, its blade corroded in places by Morgoth's foul blood.

I look at all these weapons with dismays: the swords of star-metal, the weapon of the king, a dwarven axe with exquisite craftsmanship and other trophies stolen from noble corpses.

“He collects them,” Curufin tells me. His voice sounds oddly normal; the white of his eyes is showing around his irises. “Mairon favors him. He gives him gifts sometimes.”

“You knew he had those?”

“The lock is sentient. No one could open without Eöl's consent. I did not find how to do it.”

I think back of Maeglin affirmation that no fëanorian would be able to open the Iron Door. Perhaps he wasn't exaggerating after all.

I let my fingers trail on Ringil's blade. Fingolfin was stronger than I was, with a taste for sturdy weapons, while I favored lighter ones. Still, I feel the sword calling for me, and find my hand closed upon the hilt without thinking. A shiver runs through my spine, cold and foreboding.

“Don't touch anything,” I order Curufin, and start taking the swords out to match them with sheaths and daggers.

“Wow,” Caranthir exclaims as soon as he gets in, not sparing more than a glance toward Eöl's corpse, now covered with a sheet. “Where did you find this?”

“Eöl had them.” I motion for Maeglin to come by me rather than go sulk in a corner. “I found your sword.”

“This is not my sword. I stole it,” the prince says. I hand him Anguirel anyway. “I don't deserve...”

“I remember someone saying we would be judged once we got out. Take it!”

Maeglin accepts reluctantly, and I wonder if he will even try to use it or just let the first orc we cross kill him. Caranthir has no such qualms and looks rather... well, not delighted, but more satisfied by my finding than he has been in a long time.

Of course, he goes for the axe.

“So, what just happened?”

“Eonwë agreed. He will help us. But –“

Caranthir frowns. Of course there is  a but. There are always buts.

“He needs one week to bring the vanguard forward.”

“We don't have one week. Not anymore. We have to move now.”

“We are getting dad out?” Curufin asks, or says: he looks joyful and I have no idea if he meant his words as a question. “We are saving him?”

“Yes, we are saving him,” Caranthir answers, eyes digging into Curufin, trying to put weight in them. “But we are not taking him out.”

“But...”

“Curufin. We talked about this. We cannot let Ancalagon loose if we don't have the Silmarils. If I manage to get them and if we get out of there in one piece then we will be away with Ancalagon.”

“But finding the Silmarils is hard. We just have to open...”

“ **No** ,” Caranthir cuts. “Can Ecthelion carry us?”

“Yes. He should be waiting for me at the Iron Door, but I will have to harness him. He has been wounded but I hope he can still take us far enough.”

“So are you,” Caranthir notices. I have been standing behind the table, using the furniture to hide my limp. I am suddenly engulfed into the warmth of his arms. “You look exhausted.”

“I met Nardis on my way back.”

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.” My body feels oddly cool and sedated. “But you may have to stop hugging me or I may fall asleep in your arms.”

“Do you think Maeglin is in any state to fight?”

“I have no idea. Curufin is thoroughly unfit.”

He takes barely a second to decide.

“Take them both to Ancalagon. I will join you once I have the Silmarils.”

“Caranthir – “

“No. You are already hurt and dead on your feet, and you are the only sane person there. If anything happens to me... you will know. Sabotage the Iron Door if you can, but whatever happens, take curufin away from here. He may be our only hope on controlling Ancalagon.” He kisses me, his teeth crushing my lips against his. “He is weak. Have hope.”

“I will.”

My husband dashes out, armed to the teeth, while I follow at a slower path, Maeglin opening the way. I am still limping and try to use Curufin as a crutch, but he is taller than me and too fidgety to be of much help.

The walk to the new dragonpit takes us forever. I finally renounce to use Curufin's help to limp on my own, using Fingolfin's sword as a crutch and praying that the cold radiating from the hilt is just a play of my imagination and not some curse worked into the metal by Eöl's sick mind.

Ecthelion should be waiting by the Iron Door, but we will need his harness if we hope to go anywhere. We use all the little paths I know to get to a way out to the slopes, as close as possible to the Door. I am relieved not to see Nardis anywhere.

_Glorfindel! You are fine!_

I am almost thrown to the ground by his enthusiastic nudges, wincing in pain as his snout ghosts over the burnt skin of my tight. After a quick check up, his own leg isn't looking much better. I instruct him to go back to his home and bring me his harness, _and no chewing._

“Do we _have_ to escape like this?” Maeglin asks. His skin looks grey, though I cannot say if he is feeling sick or if the peculiar lightening has this effect on him.

“Ecthelion is our friend. He will not hurt you.”

Maeglin pinches his lips.

“I... I know. It's just, I... ha. I mean...” His gaze drops to his feets. “I fell.”

“We will be attached to him, you don't have to... oh.” And I finally remember what Idril told me: Maeglin fell at the walls. But now, this was not the exact phrasing.

He fell from the walls to his death.

We have to escape by flight on a dragon Maeglin is terrorized by... and he is afraid of heights.


	9. You gave him to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really small chapter buuuuuuuut I promised one chapter a week so here it is!

I put Ecthelion's harness on while Maeglin keeps watch over Curufin, who is now babbling nonsense about the sky, clouds and the softness of the Mariner's hands. He is useless and fairly noisy but at least, he hasn't tried to stab us. Yet.

I am exhausted and want nothing more than to curl against Ecthelion to sleep; nonetheless I push back the urge and start my treck down, toward Ancalagon, hoping that I won't have to ask Maeglin to sabotage the Door.

Of course, nothing goes according to my wishes.

“ _Long_ time no see, Glorfindel.”

“I would love to say that I am delighted to see you, Nardis, but you are starting to _really_ get on my nerves.”

The Balrog stands between us, the Door and Ancalagon, who cowers despite his incredible size and power: he has been wounded too many time by whips of fire not be terrified by Balrogs. I hear Maeglin take in sharp, hasty gulps of air behind me, and know that I can expect no help from him.

Not that I want some.

“Maeglin. Take Curufin to Ancalagon. He will not let anyone hurt his son.” My hand finds Ringil's hilt. The sword shivers with anticipation, cold shooting through my arm. “I have long wanted for a rematch, beast!”

I lunge forward the moment she does, Ringil flashing out her scabbard like a white thunderbolt. I feel like the Helcaraxë has suddenly dropped into me: a coldness I wish I could have forgotten fills my body, freezing all fear and dulling the pain of my leg. I hold in my hand all the rage, all the desperation and pain of one who lost the great love of her life; I hold the last being on Arda to have heard Fingolfin's bravery crashing uselessly against the great evils of this world.

I feel like all my exhaustion disappears.

Nardis is twice my size, but I am twice as fast. I dance around her, dodging her powerful  but clumsy blows. She cleaves from head to toes, her flaming scimitar hitting the ground in a cascade of burning sparks, while I dart to my right and cut her thigh; she makes a great flaming fan by swinging her huge weapon horizontally, but I crouch and strike her while jumping up.

I fight like ice, drinking the warm and fire with the never ending thirst of Ringil, poking, cutting until her acidic blood covers the ground in small, fuming craters.

At least I see an opportunity to inflict more than superficial wounds. I dodge and slip behind her, Ringil slashing through her knee. The great shout of a wounded animal erupts from her, her leg bending until the shattered knee hits the ground. Immobilized, she cannot reach me anymore; I grab my sword, two handed, and let the chopper fall down on her neck. Her body disintegrate into burning sand, ashes and red-hot remains, scorching my arms and sending sparks into my face and eyes.

I double with the pain of the burn, trembling with the icy cold seeping from Ringil. The pain in my leg awakens, more terrible than ever. I let Fingolfin's sword fall to the ground and soon follow her.

I must have passed out, for I wake up huddled into Maeglin's arms, his hands rubbing me vigorously to bring some heat back into me. My nails have turned blue and my teeth are clattering.

“It's alright. You'll get warmer. Ulmo! What happened to you?”                                         

“Sword... cursed...”

He brings my fingers to his mouth, blowing hot air on my unfeeling skin.

“She's dead. You killed her.”

“Maia... never truly...”

“Well, she won't come back anytime soon.”

Ringil's chill gradually fades, but the burns from Nardis's fire awakens. My face feels like someone used it as a pincushion; my thigh radiates pain toward my whole leg and up my spine. Maeglin's shoulder would feel like a perfect cushion if I wasn't hurting all over.

Maeglin helps me up and we turn toward Ancalagon, seeking Curufin; but Curufin is not standing by the dragon and Ancalagon's chains are lying like dead snakes on the ground. The mad elf has gone to the great door, to the lock that no one but Eöl and Morgoth should be able to open.

Maeglin darts forward, shouting for Curufin to step _away._ The lock clicks loudly. I limp forward, grabbing Ringil to serve as a crutch, each step punctuated by the ramifications of the great lock working itself open.

I watch, powerless, as Curufin pulls down the great lever activating Caranthir's mechanism, his efforts rewarded by the deafening sound of the Iron Door sliding outward. Ancalagon retreats on himself, scared by the scrapping and creaking of metal working, eyes wide and pupils growing thinner and thinner as light engulfs him.

“What have you done?” Maeglin yells, grabbing Curufin with dismay and anger: the Iron Door, once opened, cannot be closed. “We were supposed to wait for Caranthir!”

“Was I?” Curufin answers, voice oddly sure, his eyes full of light. “I fear dear Moryo is too late.”

“You must order Ancalagon to stay here,” I breathe. The pain is climbing up my chest, strangling my throat, mudding my mind. “He will...”

“Burn everything.” Curufin smiles a smile full of teeth; a predatory smile. “He will burn everything. Finwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin... and now Finarfin. Look like I got the whole line, and in good order too!”

The cackle springing from his throat cannot be true. Maeglin recoils from Curufin as if touched by fell fire.

“Curufin,” I keep on, “Curufin, you cannot mean what you say.”

“I wonder: did the ladies of the House come too? Will wise Nerdanel burn, or swift Indis? Or... what was her name again?”

 _My mother_. My mother is with Finarfin.

“Olotië. Her name is Olotië Raimenis. Curufin, I know she didn't get along with your family and she insulted your wife's dress but she is a _person_ –“

“Go!” Curufin shouts to Ancalagon, ignoring me altogether. “GO! Go and BURN, my lovely!” His laugh rings to the ceiling, his gestures wide and sweeping like an actor in the middle of a tirade. “Burn them all!”

The dragon rises slowly, cowed in a way that is not the Ancalagon that crooned over Curufin, seeking his arms with touching gracefulness: each step is that of a cat testing ground and expecting to be pounced upon. I stare at Curufin with eyes wide and lost, for such madness is not _his_. Curufin is a trembling mess, dreamy and incoherent and puzzled and concerned only with Ancalagon's welfare; the Curufin who cried over Eöl's body is not this murderous body shaking with hilarity.

Maeglin throws himself at Curufin – too late, I think, detached from everything, Ringil's cold creeping back into my bones. Too late to keep Ancalagon from descending upon the armies of Valinor, upon my mother and my kin.

“Let him go!” Maeglin shouts with rage. “Haven't you done enough to him and his family?”

“He is mine,” Curufin answers. Through the veil of exhaustion, I cannot make head or tail of this conversation. “All of you are mine and he more than anyone else.”

“He is not,” Maeglin says. “ _You gave him to me_. Curufin for Gondolin. He is mine and you will leave. Him. Be!”

His shouts carries Power; Curufin recoils and hisses like a wounded beast pursued by a relentless wolf.

“You granted him to me! You have no right upon Curufin – may Eru witness the bones of Gondolin and his people: you will give me the reward you promised!”

“Liar!” Curufin spits, folding under the pressure. “Liar! I ripped this knowledge from you! I owe you nothing!”

“Time and time again, _Morgoth_ , you claimed quite the contrary! Time and time again you repeated: Prince Lomion sold Gondolin for the sake of a Princess. Well here I am, the traitor you say I am, and I claim my reward: Curufinwë!”

“What reward?” Curufin wheezes. “You are a _slave_. What you have belong to _me_.”

“The door is _open_ , Morgoth. Don't you see? You unlocked it yourself. I am walking out and I am walking out with Curufin. I am _free_.”

“Never!”

“Then stops me!” Maeglin yells, climbing up the slope toward the door, following Ancalagon’s trail up. “Go on! Kill me! Make my heart stop!”

“You are mine!”

“Prove it!” A wide smile grows on Maeglin's face. “Come on! I am still breathing!” His body is a clear cut shape against the wide, free sky. “Stop me, you fucking wreck! You're just a pathetic shade of yourself! You can't even stop a single elf from walking out!”

The scream ripping out of Curufin's throat is one of pure rage mingling with pain, his hands flying to his head like a vise. I grab his arm with my free hand.

“Come on. You don't belong to him. We are leaving,” I tell Curufin, pulling softly – I don't have the strength to do more anyway, exhausted, limping and burnt. “Come on.”

We limp forward, Curufin sobbing and wrecked with the spasms of Morgoth slipping hold, until we reach Maeglin and the fëanorion crumbles into his arms.

“Sh... sh... It's alright, you are mine,” Maeglin says. We look like a sorry, weeping, torn bunch of children crumbled on the floor. “I free you, Curufin. Glamren. I do not want to own you. You are free.  We are going out. You are going home. It's alright.”

Nothing looks alright. Maeglin's face is still freckled with Eöl's blood, the wind whipping his dark hair against his gaunt face; Curufin curls into his arms, weeping, blood dripping down his nose and mingling with Eöl's on Maeglin shirt.

I, burnt, freezing, shaking with exhaustion, sit on the volcanic rocks of the mountain, devoid of energy, and contemplate the fiasco that is our escape as Ancalagon's long sinuous body slides up the slope of Thangorodrim and his wings spread for the first time.

 

 


	10. Black sails spreading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather late AND short, but I have been sick lately and unable to get much time to write. As such I deliver a half-chapter rather than a full chapter to you, but something is better than nothing, and I hope you will enjoy it anyway!

For a long time, Ancalagon seems content to remain attached to the mountain like a baby bat clinging to his mother, his unused wings folded tightly against his body, claws digging into the cliffs. We keep a warry (and useless) watch on him, warmed by Ecthelion's body; my friend acts as both heater and wind breaker: the gushes rampaging on the slopes of the Thangorodrim are as strong as ever and, perhaps, the puzzling novelty that keeps Ancalagon riveted to his solid wall of stone.

I contemplate Ringil, laying bare on the ground, when a thundering “what the fuck happened there” shouts out from the gaping opening that used to be the Iron Door.

I spring back to my feet and would have fallen had not Maeglin caught my arm. Of the three of us, he is easily the healthiest, though I wouldn't bet on his sanity. I am soon engulfed into the warm, tight and rather painful embrace of my husband, his skin rubbing raw against my burns.

“Nardis, Morgoth, Curufin, _that_ ,” I say, gesturing toward the gigantic dragon. Ancalagon has started to detach his neck from the mountain, eyeing the landscape around him with his silvery eyes. “You are well.”

I am both relieved and surprised.

“Ah, yes, I am. I am really well. Morgoth _escaped_. The coward ran away from his throne room. I did find Thuringwethil there but she just wished me luck and told me that Sauron has defected to cower at Eonwë's feet the moment we went missing.” Caranthir blinks. “She actually sounded quite drunk and said something about “flying south and far from the cursed snow before it's too late”.”

“This is all for nothing then,” Maeglin summarizes. Years of planning and finally, all we have is us dressed in potato bags with two cursed swords, a tamed dragon and a horrendously dangerous and uncontrollable dragon, and no Silmarils at all.

We should have escaped long ago.

“Absolutely not. I am going to pursue Morgoth.”

“Where?” Maeglin asks. “Angband is a labyrinth. We thought that Morgoth couldn't leave the throne room and that he couldn't use an illusion to carry the Silmarils – and we were wrong. He could be anywhere at this moment.”

“No, he cannot,” Caranthir says. “We were right that his body was fused to his throne, as the rumors said. Morgoth actually left his body there. The...thing was split in half, and the crown torn. Whatever came out of it, it must be physical and it holds the Silmarils, which are easy to find.”

Maeglin eyes him, and then Curufin, who is mumbling softly about –

“No. No, you are not taking him.”

“I came back for him. I need him to find Morgoth.”

“He will not survive this! _Look at him!_ ” We wiped the blood from Curufin's nose, but the flow keeps starting anew. “He is in no state to – “

“He **swore** ,” Caranthir half yells. “You do not understand what the Oath is, Maeglin! I swore, Curufin swore and our brothers and our father swore and finding the Silmarils is the only way to end this! I know that Curufin will most probably die if I take him with me but this is our only chance to put an end to this...” he embraces the whole landscape with a sweeping gesture, “... this madness! This whole war, the death of our families, _Ancalagon_ , this is all about the Silmarils! What do you think will happen if you just take Curufin and fly away now? Do you think he will live happily ever after? **Because he won't! He will just get crazier and crazier until he dies and Morgoth gets his soul again!** ”

“He is right,” I say tiredly. A fight between Maeglin and Caranthir is the last thing we need and my husband's face has turned to a dangerous color. “You weren't there to witness the Oath. There was a power, that night, that could bind souls to the end of time; if it can be put to rest, then it must.”

I try to stand, my hand reaching for Ringil, but Maeglin quickly kicks it out of my grasp.

“Are you also mad, Glorfindel? You can't even walk!”

“Caranthir is right. We have to get the Silmarils, and we need them fast. With Ringil I can –“

“This sword almost killed you!” He steps between the weapon and I, breathing hard and looking cornered. “You are not going.” He stares at Curufin, but the fëanorion is watching Ancalagon, mouth slightly open, half his face smudged with blood. “I will go,” Maeglin tells Caranthir, the words struggling so hard in his throat that he can barely speak. “I will go with you and...” His fists close, hard enough to break. “I will fight him. I... I have scores to settle anyway.”

I fall back against Ecthelion like a deflated balloon.

Because Maeglin is right and (even with that cursed sword of winter), I will never be able to keep up with them.

Because I am so tired I feel like closing my eyes would be like dying.

Because I cannot bear the idea of them walking away from me to fight Morgoth – and for me to just stay there and... what, wait? Look at the sky? Look at this bare, stupid and bland lands until Eonwë’s vanguard shows up to ask me why Ancalagon is flying free and I am dozing like an overcooked sausage with my lovely blue friend?

“We need to do something about Ancalagon,” I remind them. The black dragon still hasn't unfolded his wings, but he is slowly creeping up the eastern-most summit of the Thangorodrim, exploring the outside world. “Can Curufin tell him to just... I don't know, stay here and do nothing? I can still go and get Eonwë.”

Caranthir and Maeglin exchange hurried words with Curufin once they manage to bring him back to some kind of conscious state, but my brother-in-law shakes his head, slowly.

“I _feel_ Him. Not... in my head anymore... but...” His eyes are moisty and his body trembles; I have seen such signs, before, on former prisoners or elves dying of grief. We may have better control over our bodies than the men, but mental illness will destroy them quicker if allowed to do so. “Father hears him. He must...” Curufin closes his eyes. “Hunt? I... wind. I mean – the wind, it... no wait, he must... south... who is this?”

His voice breaks like that of a child.

“Voice.”

“Morgoth? Is he – “

“No. Yes. Both. Two voices... alike... the wind. Sky. The Sky scares him.” His frowns. “The master wants him to hunt and the Sky, he sounds the same, but he doesn't want to let him fly.”

“Manwë?” I ask. I remember being shocked by the violent winds battering against Angband during my escape, and I see, now, that Ancalagon clings against his rock as if fighting an angry sea. Could it be that Eonwë has warned his own master and that Melkor's brother is now trying to keep him grounded?

“Whispers. He will fly,” Curufin concludes. “The Sky is too big and cold but the master will hurt him if he doesn’t.”

“Then tell him to fly,” I say. “Tell him to fly _north_. Tell him to go to the sea of clouds. Do you remember that?”

“Yes. Lady-Bird.”

“Yes. Tell him that he will be safe here. North, up the sea of clouds. I will go with Ecthelion and....” what, tell Manwë to be nice and stop terrifying dragon toddlers? “I need to find Earendil. He has a Silmaril! If I warn him and get Ancalagon to him, then we may control him even should you fail to reclaim the others!”

“Can you take care of that?” Caranthir asks Maeglin with a “I need to speak to my husband” look on his face. The prince nods and take Curufin with him, guiding him slowly and with a tenderness I wouldn't have suspected in Gondolin; but then, in Gondolin, I couldn't recall one person Maeglin would have shared this with, and he didn't seem eager to try. “Lauryo. I can't ask this of you.”

“Good. Because I don't need you to ask, you know,” I give him my most dashing smile. “I'll do it anyway.”

“I want you to promise me something,” he says, quickly, eyes hard and jaw set. “If I fail. If I die today and Morgoth escapes – then my family will probably have lost its last chance of escaping the Oath. And...” He avoids my stare. “If I die, then I want you to know – I want you to be happy and find someone who _deserves_ you. So – if I fail, tell me you will go to Manwë and ask for our marriage to be dissolved. If you find love, I want you to...”

“Concentrate on the fight ahead,” I cut him. His speech troubles me more than I want to show, for it is true that our marriage has been… but now is not the time, and I would not let him go to his death thinking only of me abandoning him. “And come back to me. Please.”

Our fingers part with reluctance. I watch them depart, three dark haired princes to hunt evilness incarnated.

I have my own mission; one I don’t know how to manage.

I climb on Ecthelion's back, strapping myself to his harness, avoiding as much as I can to awaken my burns, Ringil back at my side. Even in her sheath, she chills me, and I wonder how I will die: eaten or burned by a dragon, or because the cold winds and colder sword will suck all warmth from my heart. Ancalagon is watching us, his wings agitated by small spasms, as if he dares not open them properly to the dangerous wind; until finally, a great gush of air blows into them, taking the star-freckled membrane like sails and pulling them open.

Ancalagon yelps and folds his wings against the mountain, embracing the cliffs with his considerable span; enormous but fragile in look like a butterfly, a vision of danger and beauty.

I dig my heels into Ecthelion's flanks and brace for the take off. The blue dragon shots to the sky, navigating with ease the currents until we fly above Ancalagon. The black beast tries to follow by climbing higher on the mountain; Ecthelion circles around the peak, chirping and calling him until Ancalagon can climb no higher, his wings embracing the mountain top.

He crouches, mimicking Ecthelion's take off, launches... and scramble miserably down the mountain, wings flapping with comic clumsiness. He growls, climbs back to the peak and fails again, claws taking off huge chunks of rock.

He succeeds in the third take off.

His huge frame struggles at first to settle into a rhythm; there is no grace in Ancalagon's flight, but his incredible wingspan allows him to devour distance, toward the low cover of black cloud.

We fly up and up, Ancalagon growing more confident the farther we get from Angband; up and up, until the darkness of Morgoth's fumes are replaced by light-grey clouds. We settle for a glide to rest the dragon wings, flying north, my teeth clattering despite Ecthelion's warm skin.


	11. Vingilot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another half-chapter but hey, it's better than nothing!
> 
> As a side note, Souls of Cinder is close to the end (still one chapter to go, then the epilogue!), but I admit that writing has become increasingly hard with my new job. Your reviews on this have kept me going even when I was close to abandonning this fic (which I won't abandon because I like it and I owe it to Sleepless Malice). To everyone who leave reviews: THANK YOU! To all of those who read but don't leave reviews: please, help your authors and tell them what you think, or at least just leave a "I read this". Sometimes it is really all it takes to keep them going.

The sky is empty of everything but the three of us; empty and unimaginably huge, layers of clouds and fumes separating us from the purity of the stars. The wind roars against my ears. Yet, there is a sense of calmness here, a feeling that we navigate through peaceful waters. Under Ecthelion's belly is a carpet of cotton; above us lays a ceiling of mist. Ancalagon follows like a duckling, though my own mount looks like a mere falcon gliding near the tallest of eagles.

Until the ceiling breaks.

The entwined couple of a dragon and an eagle falls through the layers of soft grey, tearing it appart with the shrieks of deadly lovers. The scaled beast shines red and yellow, the colors of fire and blood, his life seeping through the deep wounds inflicted by the bird's peak and talons. This fight has already been won, up above where, I now understand, the battle rages.

Ancalagon lets out an angry roar and dashes forward, his wings rushing near us with such strength that Ecthelion must settle back his own flight. The black storm launches at the eagle; the bird lets his prey loose, running from the enormous monster going after him, dodging Ancalagon's clumsy fire strikes.

The red dragon mewls pitifully. It is losing height, its wings slowing with the exhaustion of blood loss. Ancalagon circles around him once, then soars up through the clouds. Here I follow, and find myself the witness of a fight that never was and never will be again: shinning scales under the Sun, diving and clawing and firing against the great birds of Manwë, eagles of brown, white or black feathers and talons of gold and silver, their beaks open wide and their shrieks as piercing as broken glass. To this fray Ancalagon comes unexpected, his white flames dousing an unsuspecting eagle; the bird falls down, feathers aflame, in a great scream of pain.

I see the dragons rally around their king. I see Ancalagon's flanks moving with the rhythm of his deep breaths, his chest growing wider and bigger until the skin seems ready to break.

The roar rushing out of his throat deafens me.

Thunder strikes before him; the clouds part and the strength of it breaks the wings of the bird rushing toward him. They disperse with the agility of swallows, retreating west, while I wonder what new prodigy I have witnessed, what destruction Ancalagon can bring with his voice alone.

And I wonder if Morgoth will not win this fight, should I fail to stop this dragon.

I direct Ecthelion toward the retreating eagles. I hope, dearly, that they will recognize us as allies. If not, then I am taking us to our death. The blue dragon sprints forward, ignoring Ancalagon's call.

Behind us, the dragons assemble.

 _Faster_ , I beg. _Faster_ , and pray we find Eärendil! I whisper pleas to Manwë. Let us pass; let us pass and guide us!

We go through the birds unopposed, though they follow us and watch us closely, until the curtain of wings and feathers grows thin enough for me to glimpse the newest astre in our skies, the ship that carries hope above Middle Earth.

Vingilot is a ship, but no ship that has ever been made by elven or human hands. Its core is of white wood, gold and silver, in the form of the longship that must have been built on the coasts of the Falas; but around this core is a whole setting of glass and crystal, of sails as fine as silk, high and wide, their masts going up as well as to the sides. It is as big as a small city, its walls conducting light through the belly and the masts. It is stunning, delicate as a sculpture, and I cannot bear to thing what Ancalagon will do to it should he reach it unopposed.

Ecthelion lands with little grace, dumbfounded by the half transparent ground under his paws. We are immediately surrounded by guards armed with spears and bows, Vanyar by the look of them. I hold my hands up, the fingers trembling of cold and exhaustion.

I barely have the time to slide down until Eärendil reaches me.

I do not know him, but he does. The strong arms of a mariner close around me. He is smaller than I, but considerably taller than he was the last time I saw him.

“Glorfindel! I thought you were dead!”

“So did I, lad,” I laugh, “so many time I've stopped counting them!”

He pulls away and I take a moment to consider this child, now a full grown adult. Straw-blond hair, more akin to Tuor's than to Idril's, crown a fair head that bears resemblance to Turgon. A light beard follows the line of his jaw, but his eyes are blue and filled with the light of elvenhood.

I steady myself. Now is not the time for happy reunions.

“Morgoth has unleashed his greatest beast. I came to help you.”

I hear a snicker to my left.

“The black dragon?” a vanyarin officer ask, his voice as haughty as his armor is shiny. “I can't wait for the famed Balrog Slayer to tell us how to down this thing!”

With a start, I wonder if he even believes the stories. There is some sort of disdain in his voice, forcing me to consider myself: wounded, dressed in rags, looking like a slave escaped from Angband.

“I am not going to help you _down_ him. I came to help you to get Ancalagon out of the fight. He could be turned away – perhaps even persuaded to help us.”

The officer opens his mouth, but Eärendil cuts all leave to talk with a sharp gesture of his hand.

“How?” he asks, and I hear in his voice that he trusts me. “We shall not fight those who do not wish to fight us.”

“The Silmarils can be used to control him. Morgoth still possesses two, but we are nearer than he is and Ancalagon has no love for him. Bring the Silmaril out, let Ancalagon see it, and we may be able to converse with him.”

The officer's mouth pinches into a thin line. Eärendil's grows pensive.

“I cannot do this,” he says. “Vingilot is powered by the Silmaril. If I take it out of the core, then the ship will fall.”

“Then we must try with the Silmaril as it is now.”

Eärendil leads me to the core of the ship. Wholly contained by the former wooden hullof Vingilot, it is a maze of tendrils of glass, crystals and silks running from a central prism encasing the Silmaril, redistributing its light toward the flying apparatus. The radiance is such that the captain and I must wear blackened glasses not to be blinded, and Eärendil dons thick gloves before he opens the device.

“No one touches it anymore. It has been unsafe for decades now.”

“Since the kinslaying?”

“Since it was taken from Doriath. It was both revered and feared in Sirion. It can maim, but it can heal. I have seen it done.”

“Let us hope that it will help us then.”

I approach my naked fingers. I am too tired and have gone too far to fear another wound.

The pain is atrocious.

I withdraw my hand as if bitten. Blisters are already forming on the fingertips, but the burn is etched into my soul even more than unto my flesh.

“If it burns even you, then it is hopeless,” Eärendil says, ready to lock the device again. My first instinct would be to agree, but some part of me screams that we have no choice: without the Silmaril, Ancalagon will fight and many will die, all for the sake of my precious skin.

“No. I will try again.”

“Glor –“

“I will try again. I will have help.” My burnt fingers curl around Ringil's hilt. What better than cursed ice to dim the bite of fire?

I let the cold creep into my very bones, reach every part of my as it did during the long walk on the Helcaraxë. I dive into it; let it fold against me like a blanket. I cannot feel the burn anymore. Indeed, there is no part of me that still _feels_. A little more and my heart itself would change to ice.

I reach for the Silmaril and dive.

Dive into fire and light; blinding, roaring, rushing unto me as I sink forward, ice and steel running under my skin. I will the flames to part and cut through them when they don't. I am unstoppable, Winter incarnate, fell and fey and colder than anything, for Fire has made me so when it burnt the remnant of my heart.

I go deeper and deeper. I ignore the fight the Silmaril puts up to throw me out. I ignore the agony, the feeling of wrongness, the forces struggling to keep me out.

I am relentless.

The Silmaril is like a storm: strong but hollow, with a stillness inside that belies the rage I had to face to reach this haven. I have breached the last walls and find myself staring into a formless flame, white and moving, as if it could not settle for a shape.

_What are you doing here?_

The voice is strong like thunder, yet young as a child. Young and lost.

_Are you going to hurt me?_

The coldest part of me screams yes. My own heart rebels.

“No. I came to make peace with you.”

_Why?_

“Because I have no wish to harm you, or anyone for that matter.”

_I never met anyone who didn't wish to harm me._

“Is it true?”

 _No. But none of the others mattered. None of them ever tried to_ help. A pause. _Why should I believe you?_

“I came to speak to you.”

 _You_ broke _through me to speak to me. You hurt me!_

“I wasn't aiming to. I wanted to reach you because I need to stop a fight.”

_Why would I stop? Why would I give Him reasons to punish me? For whom? The only one who loved and protected me is gone. I am alone and He can hurt me. Why would I let Him to save people who wouldn't save me?_

“ _Because this is not you.”_ The words are out of my mouth, or thought aloud, but they are not mine; they spring from the Ice that cloaks my heart, from one who had so much to say to his brother and never could. _“You are stronger than this. Remember you name,_ Fëanaro _! Remember who you are!”_

The flame collapses on himself, more shapeless than ever, struggling with itself to expand and contract, to become something that may be an elf or nothing at all. The very reality collapses on me; my fingers leave the warm crystal of the Silmaril, feeling its indestructible surface fracture under my skin. Vingilot quivers, its core affected by the tremendous instability of the Silmaril; outside, a roar strong enough to split mountains rings through the sky.

Back on the deck, we witness Ancalagon twist, break formation and dive into the clouds, keening as if hurt.

For a moment, the dragons following Ancalagon stop their advance, seemingly lost now that their leader has deserted the fight. The lull, however, proves only temporary until they rally behind the most ferocious of them: big, red, spiked and armored Rog. Soon, the battle returns in full; it is one I cannot take part in, as Vingilot was meant to sail and let the eagles rest rather than to take dragons head on.

For all the bravery of Manwë's eagles, their bones are fragile and they do not breathe fire. Little by little, the curtain of birds grows thinner and more and more darting beasts manage to break it, pursued hotly, but flying closer and closer to us, until Rog himself breaks through in one mighty roar, aiming straight for us. Eärendil readies his men for a fight: archers and lancers that stand little chance against Rog's armored skin.

We brace for the fight, but it never comes to us.

Ancalagon's roar takes Rog's wingman straight in the chest, right from underneath. The green beast surges up like a nutshell on a wave, then falls, limp like a doll, his chest crushed by the strength of the scream.

Ancalagon dives out of the clouds like a great whale, dwarfing even Rog, blue fire erupting from his jaw to roast one of his silver brethren. Rog breaks the fight, flying back to his disrupted flock, hissing loudly.

The two dragons eye each other wearily. Ancalagon circles around us, chest rumbling; Rog evades him, climbing higher for higher grounds, and I wait for Ancalagon to do the same.

He doesn't.

And Rog dives, smaller and less powerful, but a seasoned fighter again one whose flight is still clumsy. Ancalagon tries to divert his flight with fire but misses, his strike carried away by the wind; Rog claws dig into his back, deep into his shoulders, his maws closing around his throat in a choking grip.

The Vingilot arms his ballista. Of the first volley, only four or five arrows find their target, two of them digging into Rog's back. The second volley shots through the air, just as Rog moves to clawing at Ancalagon's left's wing. In a scream of pain, the black dragon rolls, losing steadiness as he loses the use of one wing.

The second volley  strike them right through the flank, sinking through the clouds; as Ancalagon fade into the whiteness, I understand that I have failed; I have failed to protect him and guide him to safety and, perhaps, condemned my friends if Ancalagon's fall kills what remained of Curufin's will.

I am deaf to Eärendil's efforts to keep me from leaving. I climb on Ecthelion's back, kicking someone's hand away from my leg. He takes off with me clawing at his harness, not even properly tied. I have to see. I have to see what remains of Ancalagon, and what remains of Rog, who used to be a dearest friend. Ecthelion dives down at incredible speed.

We shot through the last layers of cinders to see the two great dragons, fighting their death throws and gravity and entanglement, but falling, falling, falling until they crash against the peaks of the Thangorodrim. The mountain crumbles like a pile of black sand: years of digging into its core must have made it fragile. Or, perhaps, it's very existence was brought by Morgoth power. He made the peaks surge from the ground; they fall with him, with the dragon that was his last hope, and now lays dying in the ruins of Angband.

Ecthelion lands on the plains of cinders. The world falls under our eyes, rocks and earth shaking. Clouds of ashes raise from the ground. Soon, even my sharp eyes can see nothing but the volcanic remains of Morgoth's lair; and then they close, and I fade into nothingness.

 

 

 

 


	12. With such beautiful souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have proved time and time again that I am 100% unable of finishing this chapter AND that I am writing at a snail's pace, so here is the first half of the last chapter before the epilogue. Unfortunatly I couldn't run it through an automatic corrector so please, forgive the 1038473 mistakes that are bound to poison this thing.

I wake up swaddled in clothes like a babe.

Someone bandaged all my wounds while I slept, which happens to be all over me and now hurt quite a lot. I try to sit, but my body is heavy and sore and I end up falling back into my pillow.

“You are awake!” My mother's face appears above me. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a dragon landed on me.” I blink and start. “Ecthelion! What happened to him?”

“He is fine. He is helping with the evacuation.”

“The evacuation?”

Olotië sighs. I feel the mattress sinking near my hand as she sits by  my side.

“The snows of the north are melting. The land is breaking in places, with fiery crevasses appearing here and there... what could still be salvageable is... poisoned, by something. Eonwë claims that it is Morgoth's power, deeply entrenched into Beleriand, that is now breaking it apart.” There is a sadness in her that I wouldn't have suspected; not from her, who never meant to come here and loved the perfection of Valinor. “The civilians have been gone for a long time, going east or boarding ships to Valinor. The armies still need to leave, and it is becoming increasingly difficult.”

I think of Gondolin, broken and drowned, of impregnable Himring, of the thousands of thousands of graves. I think of these lands I have grown to love, and how quickly they are lost to us – and for the first time, I feel like the world is moving too fast for me. I wish I could stand and visit a hundred places; I wish I could spend my immortals years visiting this world that dies faster than I do.

“Morgoth was vanquished then?”

“Yes. He was taken in chains to Valinor. I cannot...”

Her face closes with disgust.

“You should have seen him. Seen what he's become like. He was... I have never seen anything that repulsive. Skinless, deformed, slimy... no Vala should be reduced to _this_. Your friend, Maeglin – he took his crown and melted it into a collar. He said something about pay back. Even _that_ was too good for that thing.”

My heart jumps into my chest; so, that means Maeglin is alive!

“And your husband as well,” Olotië confirms. “Not as well as Maeglin, but well enough. He was by your side as much as he could, which is not very much considering his duties.”

I ask her to tell me everything that happened while I was asleep (apparently, I have been out for seven days), and she obliges. I hear that Eonwë kept his words, but that the deal I struck with him wasn't to everyone's liking. Maeglin, has apparently, refused the immunity granted to him for his service in “hastening Morgoth's end” (a clear understatement, considering that he was _there_ to axe the creature’s feet off, and that Caranthir is the only one to be able to claim to have done the same; I still don't know which of them lost his nerves enough to butcher their enemy’s body, but I can blame neither), preferring to face trial in front of the people of Gondolin at the end of the war, and “whatever fate they will chose for my crimes”.

Curufin was found dead not far from Morgoth's final stand, though his death was, I am told, swift, and his pardon granted. I cannot help but think that the hope of finding him back in Valinor is the main motivation for Maeglin going there; that, and the hope of returning to his dear mother.

Caranthir knelt in front of Eonwë, surrendering the Silmarils he had retrieved, and was named their guardian for the time being.

“The position is still unofficial, of course,” my mother explains. “And almost a secret. Many people would be against it and would try to stop this if they knew a Son of Fëanor was here, and so close to the Silmarils.  Eonwë is adamant that Maedhros and Maglor must surrender themselves before Caranthir's nomination. Their Oath is moot now that their brother is in possession of the Silmarils again and he allowed Eärendil to sail with the third one. They do _not_ have the excuse of their vow anymore! If they still have one moral bone in them, they will come to lay their crimes at Eonwë's feet, like Caranthir and Maeglin did.”

A sense of dread fills me. I have not encountered Maedhros Fëanorion since the Glorious Battle, but he was unyielding and possessed by a cold rage that wasn't denied by his latest crimes. What kind of fool expects someone like him to come and ask for forgiveness? Especially since neither Maedhros nor Maglor have been told that their Oath was, in fact, fulfilled?

I want to see my husband.

I walk painfully to Eonwë's tent, leaning heavily on my mother's shoulder, but he is there, safe and sound, one arm supported by a sling. The marks of an old bruise are fading from his face.

Olotië leaves us silently; the tent flaps behind her even as Caranthir's lips crush mine.

“I am sorry I wasn't there when you woke.”

“Shh. This is fine. I can tolerate this, coming from a Vala-slayer.”

“I am honored to get the title from someone who slew the same Balrog twice.”

“We make such a nice, epic couple,” I laugh. “I will have dozens of songs made for us.”

“Please don't,” he says, very seriously. “I don't want songs. I just want all of this to end. I want to go home, atone, and live in peace.”

I seat on a camp bed, suddenly drained.

“I came as soon as I heard. Surely, Eonwë can't be expecting your brothers will surrender?”

The real question is: are you expecting this?

Caranthir takes and awfully long time to answer.

“I _am_ tired, Lauryo. I am...”

I wait.

“I did many... things, to follow my brothers. For a long time I told myself that it was... not okay, but that I wasn't an horrible person, because I did this because I loved them. I saw the truth because of Maeglin.” His dark eyes focus back on mine. “Whatever excuses I have, I know, I always knew they weren't right. I _am_ an horrible person, I _did_ horrible things, and fighting Morgoth does not erase my mistakes and my crimes. This is why I surrendered to Eonwë, and why I was sentenced to guard the Silmarils until the Valar put an end to my penance. Once we reach Valinor, I will take the Silmarils to Vingilot, and I shall not be allowed to set foot on ground again.”

He keeps looking at me, refusing to look away from my blank expression, because even after all of this, I still don't get the happy ending, and Elwing's fate, standing at the top of a tower waiting for Eärendil, is not what I hoped for us; but I see that this is not what Caranthir was hoping for as well, and so say nothing, for his choice seems the noble one to me.

“I couldn't wait for you to wake. I am too weak when it comes to you or my brothers. I would have... I would have failed to do what is right.”

“It's alright,” I say, my strangled voice sounding very much like it isn't; but I actually agree with him. He has no excuses, and I have none as well. The war is at end, our time in Angband is up, and there is still Doriath to be addressed. “I understand.”

“I hoped you would. You are nobler than I am.” He sits by me, his warm hands taking mine. “I hope Maedhros and Maglor will see things as we do.”

“So do I,” I whisper. I am tired. Tired, and sore and hurt. “I will wait for you, and I will be there every time Vingilot comes back. Or,” I manage to smile almost convincingly. “Perhaps I could come and sail with you once in a while.”

“I would love that.”

He seems relieved, and I understand that one world for me would lead him to abandon whatever promise he made, not for lack of honor, but because he loves too much and too hard. I stand and embraces him, inhaling his scent, and now I wonder: I am ready to follow him back to Valinor? Less than an hour ago, I was grieving for Beleriand, for lands unseen, and there are still so many hills, so many forests and high mountains I have yet to see!

My legs are weak. Soon, Carantir pushes me back to the bed. I watch him go to a chest and take an unadorned box made of light wood from it, then sit back near me and fetch a small key hanging from his neck.

My breath remains stuck in my throat.

There they are; the two, perfect brothers of the jewel I held on Vingilot; unscathed, unspoilt, immaculate. Their light washes over me like a cool balm on burnt skin. I close my eyes, inhaling the distilled power, watching in amazement as flowers and fireworks and stars flower behind my eyelid as the Light go through the skin.

“You shouldn't,” I sigh. “What you said about you father... I shouldn't...”

“My father wouldn't want you to suffer. He could be kinder than most with those he loved.”

I think back of Tirion; I think back of my mother's sneers, of the pettiness of Fëanor's supporters when they looked at my family. I open my eyes and watch the Silmarils, the soul of one of us made manifest, and I think of the ugliness that Fëanor brought to our world.

I think back, and I wonder: with such beautiful souls, how did we manage to be so cruel?


	13. The last embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter! The 14th will be the epilogue. Thank you all for reading and reviewing this fic, I hope you liked it.
> 
> This "chapter" is very short since it was intended as a part of chapter 12. Good read to everyone!

I wake to the feeling of a cold hand gripping my heart, drenched in sweat. My raged breathing rouses my mother, who slept by my side, but I hardly feel her soft hand going through my braids, nor hear the words and questions whispered to me.

I do not remember dressing myself. I do not remember being helped by my mother to Eonwë's tent. I do not remember anything but my husband laying cold on his camp bed; laying cold where he told me, hours ago, that he would repent and make the right choices.

I do not remember the scream that tears my throat, nor the wounds. Eonwë covered his body with a sheet, and Caranthir's face is peaceful.

I do not remember walking out of the camp, nor the words that set into my mind the fey goal of finding my husband's murderers. I do not remember who tells me what happened, and how it is told. But I go, my skin bloodied by the wounds I reopened; I go.

I find him where fire meets water. Here, a great cleft has opened, sprouting the blood of earth into the fuming waters, where once stood lush plains of pastures. Hot clouds surrounds us like ghosts.

“He jumped,” Maglor tells me. He is standing above the chasm; there is a plain wooden box laying empty by his feet, a small key with a leather thong embed into the lock, and the last Silmaril laying at his feet. “He could not bear what he did, and the burn.”

“ _You murdered your own brother,_ ” I hiss. I have no tears anymore, but I wonder: can Maglor see the salt still coating my eyes? “Why?”

“He who keeps or hides a Silmaril from Fëanor or his sons...”

“He is your brother!”

“But still, he would keep them from us. He would offer them to the Valar. After everything.” Maglor seems to start, as if waking for a dream. “Maedhros did not see him. Did not believe... _he was dead_. It was an accident. I had no part in this.”

“As you had no part in the kinslayings? Tell me, Maglor Fëanorion, where were you at Alqualondë? Did you not bloody your sword? Did you stay your father's torch at Losgar, or refuse to fight at Doriath? And what of Sirion?”

“I was born second. I was born to record our history. I followed my elders.”

“You are a _coward_! _This_ is what you are! But you are not planning to record _that_ , are you?”

Maglor turns to face me. I am shocked by the emptiness of his face. The elf that stands in front of me is no hero. It is no warrior, no great prince; just a shell, emptied by tragedies and crimes, and perhaps by his own uncaring nature. A shiver of repulsion runs through my aching body. No tears, no feelings; I find nothing there that could show any regret for what was done to Caranthir.

I advance on him, and he must have felt threatened, because he steps back, despite my empty fingers, and me being unarmed. The Silmaril lies in front of me. I just have to bow to take it, to feel the burn of grief sear through my fingers.

“Kin upon kin! Was it not the curse of the House of Fëanor?” I say, voice heavy with rage, the warmth of the jewel shooting deep into my bones. “We shall not fade, nor become a shadowy folk in the mist! Was it not Fëanor's answer? Then hear my voice! In the name of your Father I curse you! In the name of Fëanor, whose soul burn in my hand, I curse you to live in shadows! In the mist you will wander, and no soul alive shall hear your voice again! Unrecorded will be your deeds and forgotten your face! The world shall age and break and go on, but you, Maglor, will remain here. You will have no part in this, and this – this is the future of this land. Go now! Be gone, and be lost, now and forever!”

Is it my tears, or the mist, or some fey magic invoked by my voice? I blink through a veil, and soon I am standing alone, overlooking the newborn sea, exhausted and lost. My fingers curl harder against the facetted shell of the Silmaril, but even this pain seems dull and meaningless, as does this supposed victory we won.

I walk to the very edge of the cliffs. I consider throwing myself down like Elwing did; I almost do, and stop with one feet ready to step on emptiness, remembering my mother’s smile, remembering that Maeglin is still there, and that letting him become the last of us is unfair. And so I throw my arm back and with all my strength, let the Silmaril fly, high and far, until his light disappears into the muddy waves; until the last embers of Fëanor's fire finally fade from Middle Earth.

Only then do I turn and walk back home.


	14. Epilogue

**First days of the Fourth Age**

I didn't know what to expect when the white ship set sails toward the West; oddly, returning home feels harder than leaving it.

I am not the youngling that departed from Tirion on these fateful nights anymore. I have grown, during these millenia spent fighting, drinking and singing. I have seen great love bloom and children stay behind. I have seen Middle Earth flourish and burn one time too many.

As our ship approaches the quays of Tol Eressä, I watch the faces of this last voyage's companions: Galadriel's, worn by more battles than I lead myself, finally repenting to take the path home; Elrond, who was born far from the light of the Trees and leaves behind his most precious treasures.

I try not to expect too much. My mother, I know I will find waiting. Maeglin also, perhaps. Time flows oddly in Valinor and I am not sure about the length of his punishment anymore. It is the others I wonder about. Most probably Ecthelion if he still hasn't decided to trade his wings for the body of an elf. None from Gondolin had been released when I left, and no son of Fëanor.

It's been long years since I last thought of Caranthir, but now the thought of him is overwhelming.

I was right about my mother: her warmth, her smile, her embroidered sleeves embrace me before I can even take a good look at who came to greet us (many, I see; but are those I truly want to see standing in the crowd?). I take in her scent and let my ears learn of her voice again.  _Home_ . Home, one last time – one that should last forever.

Olotië takes a step back. Her eyes roam over me and her smile is satisfied.

“Well, at least, you come back in one piece this time !”

I smile widely. The scars from the War of Wrath disappeared in time, but it is true that I look untouched. I haven't been more careful; rather, the foes I fought were lesser than those of the First Age.

“Come! There are many who wish to see you,” my mother says. I let myself be pulled gently through a group of admirers to a calmer place, a small plaza shadowed by a twisted olive-tree where an handful of dark haired noldor are waiting to greet me: the white swirl of Aredhel's dress and Maeglin's sharp glance. The prince is carrying a small child in his arms, entirely covered by a black cloak despite the heat, his or her face hidden in the crook of Maeglin's neck.

“My lady,” I answer to Aredhel's happy chattering. “I am so happy to see you again!”

“You cannot begin to be as happy as I am,” the princess answers. She looks fine and happy, with colors on her cheeks and stray strands of hair escaping from her braids. “I have been waiting since forever to thank you for taking good care of my Lomion.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Maeglin protests. He doesn't look embarassed, but he sounds very much like it. “Glorfindel has been there for less than ten minuts. Please wait until we are home before you start...”

“What are you waiting for?” she cuts him happily. “I'm sure Glorfindel cannot wait to meet your little brother.”

“Moth-”

“You have a brother?”

_With whom?_ I want to ask, since I cannot imagine for one second that Aredhel would have touched Eöl again. I had expected the child to be Maeglin's son or daughter.

“That's complicated,” Maeglin answers, but his words are drowned by Aredhel's joyful “yes! Come on, little one, say hello!” and the following protests (“Mother! He is shy, give him his time!”), until Maeglin finally manages to convince the little one to stop bitting on his shoulder (something that he must be doing quite often since this particular shoulder happens to be reinforced with leather) and turn toward me.

I watch the child's face in amazement.

His skin is pale and soft in places; scaled in shiny black otherwise, pink pouty lips forming a small “o” that shows that his canines are far too long and sharp. Hair black as ink frames the round baby-face with soft curls. I barely have the time to register the strange features before the child buries his head back into Maeglin's hair.

“Let us meet your cousins!” Aredhel orders with a wide smile. She takes the strange child from Maeglin's arms and adjusts him on her hip, letting us follow her purposeful strides. I follow, relieved that all of this seems so natural, as if I had never truly be parted from Aredhel or his son.

We find our way back toward Galadriel. She is standing slightly to the side of the excitement, overlooking fondly the Hobbits' first steps in Valinor, Gandalf and Elrond doing most of the talking.

“Cousin,” Aredhel greets her. She pretends to be relaxed, but I can easily decipher her body language, and I feel that she is more worried than she seems. “I don't think you had the opportunity to meet my sons.” She all but pushes Maeglin forward. “You must know about Lomion already.”

“Indeed,” Galadriel answers, her smile graceful enough. 

“And this is my second son, Fëanaro Ancalaco,” Aredhel adds, sounding like a mother ready for a fight, as if she expects Galadriel to scorn her son (is he, really?) as she did... before? Back when he was someone else? “Say hello to your aunt, Naro.” All she gets is a little whine. “Come on, Naro, surely greeting two persons today is doable. She is definitly _not_ going to eat you.” 

At least and with much cuddling he agrees to turn. His silver irises are too big for his eyes, and they are definitly a bit more slanted than they should be.

“Hello, little one.”

Fëanaro eyes her suspiciously, his nose barely visible behind his shoulder, until Galadriel steps lightly forward; just a minuscule gesture, but one that have her hair stands into a peculiar ray of sunlight that shoots amazement to the child's face.

“Pwetty!” he shouts, and lurches forward so fast that Aredhel almost drops him and Galadriel has to take Fëanaro from her. A small, chubby hand grabs a whole strand of golden hair, and he repeats with admirative fervor: “Pwetty!”

Right before he puts the whole thing between his pointy teeth.

“Well,” Galadriel laughs, “it seems like some things never change.”

  
  


We part from Elrond and Galadriel at the beginning of the afternoon. Fëanaro, riding in front of Aredhel, is flapping his cloak like black wings, laughing high and shouting “I fly! I fly!”, while Maeglin pesters his mother about how the child is  _definitly_ too young for her to be riding so fast.

“This is a nightmare,” he tells me. “At least she stopped trying to galop while holding him in the air so he can feel the wind better. I have no idea how I survived childhood, Glorfindel, but I am not sure that _he_ will.”

“Children are more resiliant that we think, I guess. So, who is the happy father?”

“I guess I would have to explain the matter to you at some point,” Maeglin sighs. Again. “The Valar have been trying their best to repair what Morgoth did. Most of his victims are still in Mandos for healing, but some of them were twisted so far from their nature that Estë thought temporary reembodiement may be better. Rog is back at Mahtan's house by the same process. The rebirth does not really need a father and works better if the mother shares bloodties with the child, so my mother volunteered.”

“I wouldn't have expected this of her.”

“Well. She said it was past time I got a little brother,” Maeglin says. “And to tell the whole truth,” he adds, anger simmering, “she was his closest kin. None of my aunts agreed and Miriel, well, that was _complicated_.” He shakes his head, as if willing to get ride of an unpleasant feeling. “We are a, let's say, somewhat normal family. Curufin couldn't come, Celebrimbor may be released soon and he would have to travel to Mandos at short notice.”

By the time with reach the Sky Arbor and Elwing's white tower, the child has fallen asleep in his mother's arms, exhausted by his antics. Arien descends slowly to the horizon, crowning the mountains, and I know that Vingilot will soon rise in the sky. I climb the steps toward the gigantic quays where the ship is anchored, alone, letting the wind dry the sweat of the warm afternoon off my face. 

I finally find him at the very top, one hand clutching the railing of the ship, his feet so close to the quay, yet restricted to the ship as if an invisible wall was keeping him from setting foot on the stones. The narrow gap between Vingilot and the quays looks like an uncrossable barrier; yet one I can cross without pause, finding my place into his arms, my face into his neck, my nose inhaling his smell and my ears seeking his beating earth. I am crushed against him and crush him back. I part from him only to seek his lips. 

“We set sails soon,” Caranthir says, breathless. 

“Does this ship accept passagers?”

“I don't think so,” he says, “I may have to ask the captain.”

“Will Earendil mind?”

“Earendil will remain grounded for a few weeks. _I_ happen to be the captain of this ship when he doesn't sail.”

He smiles; his teeth flash white, his face being tanned brown by the sun. He looks happy, proud still but more carefree than I remember.

“Well... how can I convince the captain then?”

“I heard he is partial to kisses from beautiful blond fellows.”

I spend the first hours observing everything and everyone. From up there, Arien's disappearance and Tilion's rise are truly spectacular, and the stars purer than they have been in millenia. When Caranthir comes back to me, I am standing at the prow, enthralled by the silver plays of light against the gentle, chaotic waves of a grey sea of clouds.

“Arda is beautiful from here.”

His arms circle my waist, his chest pressed against my back.

“Yes,” he agrees. “After three centuries, I am still not an inch tired of being up there.”

“I sometimes wondered if I was watching you when the Star rose. It so peaceful up there.“

“Deceptively,” Caranthir says. “We are standing guards for the Doors of Night. Ever since I came back, I have felt it; the waning of the Powers. One day the Valar won't be enough. Arien will have dimmed and Tilion weakened, and the Doors will shake and crumble, and the Great Enemy will be back.”

“We will still be there. We will fight.”

“With all that we will be, but I am convinced, now, that we will dim and weaken with this world. There is only so much a soul can take. My father will never burn like he did in the old days and Fingolfin never shook the cold off his bones. From fire we will diminish to cinders – yet we will make our stand anyway, until the light of the Silmarils are the last shining beacon to rally us.”

“Not yet, though,” I whisper, turning into his embrace to kiss his lips.

“No,” he agrees. “Not yet...”

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Souls of Cinders! I want to thank all of those who reviewed this fanfic and helped me finish this. Sleepless_Malice, it was a real pleasure writing for you, and I hope you enjoyed this piece as much as I did! 
> 
> I wish a happy Christmas to you all,  
> Kal'


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